Meniscus
by Adelheide
Summary: Darien isn't the only invisible person


And now, for the standard disclaimer; "The Invisible Man" was created by Herbert George Wells in 1897. The guy was a visionary and genius. A hundred or so years later, a producer, Matt Greenberg, took the idea and ran with it. A television show was started, a bunch of people were hired, the thing aired, I got sucked in and addicted. However, I do not have any ties with "The Invisible Man" or Stu Segall Productions. I borrowed the characters for a little exercise in self-torture. I am not making any money from this piece of fiction. So please don't sue me. Anyway, I'm broke. You wouldn't get much out of me. The characters herein are the sole property of Stu Segall Productions. Patent pending. Offer not valid in IL, WI, CT, HI, and AK. Must be 18 years or older to play. Some restrictions apply.  
  
  
  
Meniscus  
  
me·nis·cus (me-nis'-kes) n., 1) a lens  
2) a curved reflective surface   
  
  
"The optimist sees opportunity in every danger;  
the pessimist sees danger in every opportunity."  
  
- Winston Churchill  
  
"OW." Darien Fawkes said, as much to make a point as out of actual discomfort.  
Claire, the Keeper, smiled indulgently at him and withdrew the syringe. As she broke the needle in the sharps container, Fawkes watched a tiny bead of blood well up in the crook of his elbow. "I swear you do that on purpose," he grumbled.  
Claire feigned shock and dropped the empty syringe in the prep tray. "Why on Earth would I do that on purpose?" she asked innocently.  
Fawkes grabbed a cotton ball off the cart and grumpily applied it to the wound. He shot her a disgusted glance. "I would think with all the practice you've had on me, you'd get a little better with that thing."  
He was irritable. He often was as the quick silver had built up to a certain point in his system. Claire took his wrist as watched as the ouroboros tattoo faded, cell by cell, from red to green. She felt Darien relax a bit as the last cell turned. Satisfied that the high level of quicksilver he'd allowed to build up was contained, she released his arm. "You waited too long again," she admonished.  
"Sorry", he muttered, for a moment looking for all the world like a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "I got, you know, busy."  
"Hmmm. Darien, we've spoken about this. We need to keep the levels of quicksilver in your body down as low as possible. I think if you keep pushing it, its going to damage your health." She could tell by his expression that he wasn't convinced. Fawkes was fit and in excellent health. He had the illusion of invulnerability most young people had. It was her turn to be disgusted. She shook her head and left him on the table.  
Just as he hopped off, Robert Hobbes poked his head around the glass screen in the Keeper's lab. "You done?" he asked Fawkes.  
"Yup. S'up?"  
"Boss man."  
"Comin'."  
Claire grinned ruefully at her computer screen as the two left the lab. They were far more partners than either man would care to admit. They worked well together. They were even developing verbal shorthand. Like an old married couple, Claire thought, as she opened her file and prepared to type.  
  
Fawkes hated the feeling of the quicksilver sneaking up on him. It made him tense, nervous, jittery. While the Keeper told him that those feelings were due to physical changes that the gland was causing, he wondered. How much of it was because he knew that the madness was right around the corner? Quicksilver madness. A lovely side-effect of the stupid gland in his head. A dark part of himself that he wished didn't exist taking over, filling his mind with thoughts-no, need of-violence and murder. He imagined that Hell would be having to feel like that all the time. He rolled his shoulders as he followed Hobbes upstairs. The tension was melting away already. The Keeper and her magic blue elixir. He hated being a slave to her needle, but he always felt so much...who he really was after a shot.  
Hobbes knocked on the Official's door and waited for the summons before entering. As always, Eberts was behind the large man's right shoulder, like a nerdy parrot perched by the collar of a corpulent pirate. The Official-Charlie, who knew names in the Agency?-sat and watched his two agents enter. He didn't look happy. Okay, he rarely looked happy.  
"Have a seat, gentlemen," he instructed. Fawkes folded his long frame into a tacky office chair and waited. Eberts bent down to whisper something to the Official, who nodded and flipped open a folder on his desk. "I have an assignment for you two."  
"Yes, sir?" Hobbes piped up.  
"I am putting you on body guard detail. Tomorrow night, Dr. Rajinan Praktuproli from India is going to be spending a couple of days in our city on his way to Washington. He is going to be meeting with a representative from Pakistan and the National Nuclear Safety Council. I want to be sure he has a relaxing layover and that he gets on to his plane in one piece."  
That wasn't all of it. Fawkes waited for the big man to finish, but when more of the story wasn't forthcoming, he prompted with, "Okay. How does this fall under the jurisdiction of Fish and Game?"  
"Dr. Praktuproli is not only a nuclear physicist in his country, he's also the member of several conservation societies. The plight of the Bengal tiger is his pet concern. That's our in."  
That still wasn't all of it. "And..?" Fawkes prodded.  
Annoyance tugged at the boss' mouth. He looked at Hobbes, who normally got with the program right away. But it was obvious even Hobbes was perplexed. A sigh rumbled out of him. "Needless to say, with the current situation between India and Pakistan, these talks on Washington are very important. There have been several threats against the doctor's life-"  
"What about his security people?" Hobbes wanted to know.  
"But there is one threat that we are taking very seriously."  
"What threat?" Fawkes asked this time.  
The Official glared at him. "A threat that a very good source says could actually pan out. Which is why I want you two there."  
"I don't' get it. I'm sure Dr. Prol...Pru.."  
Hobbes leaned toward him and offered, "Praktuproli."  
"Thank you. I'm sure the doc's going to have half the Indian Army around him, given the situation and especially with death threats. Wouldn't this be a job for our boys in uniform? You know, Army? CIA? Secret Service?"  
"I have to agree, sir." For Hobbes to disagree with the Official meant something was indeed rotten in Denmark. "I can imagine that Dr. Praktuproli is going to have some pretty tight security. I don't see the need for us-"  
"Because I want you there!" the Official thundered. The other two blinked in surprise and fell silent. Fawkes didn't think he's ever heard his boss yell like that. After pinning them both with a stare, the Official took a business card from the file and flipped it to Hobbes. In a calmer tone, he said, "There's an Agent Miramontez from the Secret Service. He's in charge of security for the doctor's stay. Meet him this afternoon at the Hotel D'Arcy. Introduce yourselves and make yourselves useful." His eyes fell to the file before him. Fawkes and Hobbes finally got the hint that they were dismissed and started to exit.  
"Boys," the Official said in a gentle tone. They both turned at the door and looked at him. "Keep your eyes open."  
  
Daniel Miramontez was a nice enough guy, but it was clear that he couldn't figure out why Fawkes and Hobbes had been assigned to his detail. Neither did they. The Hotel D'Arcy was one of the ritzier hotels in town. Uniformed doormen, a marble lobby with a fountain, a full time concierge team, the works. The whole place crawling with agents and military. Out of professional courtesy, Miramontez showed them around, highlighting the special steps that had been taken to protect the foreign dignitary. He also included them in the evening briefing. To Fawkes thief-trained eye, Miramontez and his team seemed to have everything covered. Of course, his experience was more about getting in then out without detection. He decided to keep his mouth shut, pay attention, and let Hobbes take the lead on this. Considering his long and checkered career with law enforcement, Hobbes would be the best one to decide if they were wasting their time.  
It was standing room only at the evening meeting. The small hotel meeting room could barely hold all the agents and police. Fawkes and Hobbes managed a spot toward the back where they were surrounded by shuffling bodies. "People," Miramontez said, wrapping up the briefing, "the good doctor arrives at the airport at 10:57 am tomorrow. Agent Mitchell and his team will collect the doctor from the airport and bring him directly here via motorcade. They will arrive at the hotel at 11:45am. Once we have Dr. Praktuproli secured here, we never let him out of our sight. On Thursday, the doctor will be lecturing in the Plaza Ballroom to a group of deans and fellows from universities all over the state. On Friday, he will leave for Washington via chartered jet and he will not longer be our responsibility. Let's make it to Friday without any incidents. Thanks for all your hard work and we'll see you here tomorrow at oh eight hundred."  
The crowd broke and started to dissolve. Hobbes stood his ground in the milling throng and Fawkes hung beside him. Clusters of agents here and there bent their heads together to discuss last minute details. There were going to be several drills in the morning before the doctor's arrival. Behind him, Fawkes heard one agent complain to another that his wife was going to "have my ass" because he had to work nights on the week of their anniversary. A petite woman with red hair pushed past him, talking on a cell phone, apparently to her child. Soon, the meeting room of the hotel was empty, except for haphazard chairs and pads of paper covered with doodles. Fawkes hopped up on one of the tables and took a load off. He crossed his arm and looked at Hobbes. His partner pursed his lips, deep in thought.  
"So?" he finally prompted.  
"So what?"  
"Why do you think we're here?"  
"Because the Official told us to be here."   
Darien snorted, exasperated. "Uh-huh. Don't you think these guys have it covered? I mean, you can't flip open your ID without hitting an agent. It's just the two of us. We're a little superfluous, don't you think?"  
Hobbes jabbed the air in front of Fawkes' face with his finger. "We're not supposed to think, we're-"  
"Come off it, Hobbes! It doesn't bug you that we're probably running another personal errand for the fat man? And that he hasn't told us anything-again? I thought we're supposed to work for The Agency, not be a pair of field Eberts for him."  
That was hitting below the belt. And he knew it. But sometimes Hobbes clung to the company line so hard Fawkes just wanted to slug him. He wanted piss Hobbes off. Because when Hobbes got mad, he did some of his best thinking.  
"See, this is why your ass is always in a sling!" Hobbes yelled back. Fawkes rolled his eyes and waited for that brain to work. It was a weird brain, but when all pistons were firing, it was scary how well it worked. "You always gotta question! You always gotta stick your nose in! You can't just do your job and do what your told!"  
Hobbes was winding down. The storm before the calm. Fawkes levelly gazed at his partner. "Yeah, well, whatever, man. Why do you think we're really here?"  
"I don't know!"  
"None of this makes any sense to you?"  
"No!"  
Hobbes began to pace furiously. The brain was going. Fawkes pulled up his legs to sit cross-legged on the table. His butt was getting sore and this could take a while.  
"They got bomb squad and SWAT on standby. They got Feds and military and every spare local they could get their hands on..." Hobbes calculated to himself. Fawkes poured himself a glass of water from one of the nearby plastic pitchers. "Metal detectors, eyes in all the surrounding buildings, dogs...practically got the damn Good Humor man..." After five more minutes of mumbling and pacing, Hobbes whirled to face his partner. "Okay, we go back and ask. Not because you want to. Because I think we could be given another assignment where we could actually get something done."  
Fawkes grinned and jumped from the table. "What ever you say. You're the senior agent."  
"Shut up, Fawkes," Hobbes growled as he stalked to the door.  
  
The next morning, bright and early (far too early, as far as Fawkes was concerned), he and Hobbes were rapping on the Official's door. They had enough time for a quick third degree before they had to be at the hotel. Eberts opened the door, a bit startled to see the two of them. "Yes?"  
"We need to see the Man," Hobbes huffed and made to push past the aid.  
"The Official is not in just yet." Eberts held his ground.  
"Okay. We'll wait." Fawkes added his larger frame to the effort of entrance.  
With some effort, Eberts kept the door mostly closed. "You gentlemen can wait in the hall. He has meetings all morning. He won't be in until early this afternoon."  
Hobbes glared at his watch for emphasis. "We have to be somewhere in an hour and we need information right now!"  
Eberts looked pained. "If it is about your current assignment, I was told to tell you to make yourselves available to Agent Miramontez and report back here when the assignment has concluded."  
"What assignment?" Fawkes marveled at how angry Hobbes could get this early. He could barely think, let alone get upset. "They don't need us down there. The fat man says there's a threat again Dr. Prake...Prok..."  
Fawkes helped with, "Praktuproli."  
"Thank you. There's a threat this guy. But there are a million agents and cops down there and I don't see where the two of us are going to make any difference."  
"The Official thought the two of you would be specially qualified for this task."  
Now it was clear. Eberts was hiding something. The guy was such a bad liar, it was amazing he got a job with a top-secret government agency. Hobbes and Fawkes exchanged glances and knew the plan. Together, they pushed against Eberts and entered the office. Hobbes shut the door behind them. He got right up Eberts' nose and demanded, "Why?"  
"Because...you two have...experience...with this particular threat," the aid stammered. Hobbes and Fawkes looked at each other again. How pathetic can you get?  
"Nice try, but try again," Fawkes insisted. He was tall and very aware of it. He tried not to be a bully. But now wasn't the time to play nicey nice. He loomed over the aid and stared down at him. Eberts tried to back away and they followed him in unison until they had him pinned against the desk.  
"Really. I can't tell you. It could be my job," Eberts squeaked.  
"It's gonna be your skull in a minute if you don't cough it up," Hobbes growled.  
"Robert, there is no reason to threaten," the slight man tried to sound indignant.  
"Hey," Fawkes said in a soothing tone. "The big guy doesn't have to know. We just want to know what's going on so we can do our job." They were playing good cop/bad cop. Whatever worked.  
"I don't have all the details. Just that the Official got a tip from a good source that an attempt was going to be made on Dr. Praktuproli's life and that the assassin might be able to evade law enforcement."  
"A tip?" Fawkes asked Hobbes.  
"From who?" Hobbes returned.  
"'From whom.'"  
"Whatever." He refocused on Eberts. "Whom did he get this tip from?"  
"Actually, in that case, it would be 'who'-" Eberts told him.  
"Whatever. Don't change the subject."  
Eberts held up his hands. "I don't know. Honestly. I've already violated several rules just telling you this much. Please."  
They relented and backed off, giving him some precious breathing room. Eberts straightened his tie and tried to regain his composure. Since they both knew that was all they were going to get today, the duo turned for the door. Eberts was enormously relieved that they were leaving  
"'An assassin who can evade law enforcement', huh?"  
"A pro?" Fawkes threw out.  
"Naw. The guys downtown are ready for that."  
"Maybe I should borrow one of your guns."  
Hobbes snorted. "You don't do too well with guns, my friend." He opened the door and left.  
"Yeah, but I'd feel a whole lot better..." Fawkes called after him before pulling the door shut.  
  
The meeting for the security detail that morning was more of the same of the previous night. The drills went smoothly. Everyone knew what they needed to do and were ready for every contingency. While being polite and professional, Miramontez kept Hobbes and Fawkes on the periphery. Which was fine. It gave the two time to talk.  
They hashed out everything they had done for the past few months. Every assignment, every bad guy, every outcome. All the missions had been resolved, one way or another. Every bad guy was in prison or dead. Every M.O. taken into consideration. By the time Dr. Praktuproli's escorted limo pulled up to the hotel entrance, they were at a loss. Every cop within a mile became immediately and intensely alert. A Secret Service agent opened the car door and out stepped a small man. He had mahogany skin and a shock of pure white hair. But his dark eyes were sharp and bright as he surveyed the new environment before reaching back into the limo. His hand was taken and he helped a woman out. She was even smaller than the doctor, with the same deep coloring. Her long hair was black with shots of gray and neatly braided into a single plait that ran down her back. She wore a modern version of Indian dress, a long mauve tunic over pants. Hoop earrings and a wedding band were the only jewelry she wore.  
Miramontez wasn't tall, but he towered over the old man. "Dr. Praktuproli," he greeted, extending a hand. The doctor regarded the offering for a moment, then seized the agents hand in his small gnarled one. "I am Daniel Miramontez. Welcome to the United States."  
"Yes, yes," Praktuproli said impatiently. "We were greeted at the airport." His accent was an odd blend of British and classic Indian. He let go of Miramontez and ushered the woman forward. "This is my wife, Siri."  
"An honor, ma'am," the agent greeted with a slight bow. Mrs. Praktuproli inclined her head in return.  
"We are tired now," the doctor stated bluntly. "It was a long flight and I am an old man. We would like to see our room."  
"Of course, sir. Right this way. If there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know..."  
Hobbes and Fawkes watched the trio walk up the steps and disappear into the lobby, closely followed by five agents who were doing a terrible job of looking nonchalant. Inside they knew were more agents, for every step the doctor and his wife would take between the front door and their suite. At that very moment, more agents on the seventh floor were doing a last-minute sweep of the room.   
"Okay, now what do we do?" Fawkes sighed.  
Hobbes had that look. That look that said he was very unhappy with the situation. "You heard the fat man. We make ourselves useful." He hitched up his belt and climbed the steps. Fawkes really wanted some more coffee. He followed his partner into the hotel instead.  
  
It was time to make their token appearance. As, ostensibly, agents of the Department of Fish and Game, Hobbes and Fawkes were to present themselves to Dr. Praktuproli. Hobbes dressed for the occasion, wearing his good wool-blend jacket and tan slacks. Even Fawkes managed to look presentable. They went to suite 704, where their ID's were checked at the door. Soon, they were shown in.  
Dr. Praktuproli was at a table by the far bank of windows, pouring over papers and files before him. Hobbes looked at Fawkes and tilted his head, indicating for the junior agent to follow him. He approached the physicist and stood quietly, waiting for the older man to notice him. They waited for a few long minutes. Fawkes began to rock on the balls of his feet and Hobbes jabbed him with an elbow. Finally, Hobbes quietly cleared his throat.  
"Hm? What?" Dr. Praktuproli snapped, peering up at them through thick glasses.  
"Yes, Dr. Praktuproli," Hobbes pronounced carefully. "I am Agent Robert Hobbes. This is Agent Darien Fawkes. We're with the Department of Fish and Game, sir."  
"Hm? Fish and game?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Well?"  
"Sir?"  
"What do you want?" the doctor demanded tersely.  
The old man's abruptness threw Hobbes for a second. "Uh, well, sir, we...um..."  
"We understand you're interested in the conservation of the Bengal tiger, sir," Fawkes jumped in.  
Praktuproli looked at each of them as though they were insane. "I have no time for tigers right now," he said crossly. "I have a lecture tomorrow night that I must prepare for. Go now."" He waved them away and went back to his papers.  
The pair exchanged a look that said O-kay. They turned to go and nearly collided with Mrs. Praktuproli. She had changed into a pretty floral outfit with a flowing pink scarf. "Gentleman, with me please." Her accent was more British than Indian. Her smile was dazzling white. She crooked a finger and they followed her to a small table by a kitchenette. She laid out a graceful hand, indicating that they should sit. The two settled into their seats and the woman set two china teacups before each of them. Then she joined them at the table.  
"You must forgive my husband. He is a brilliant man. But, when he works, he forgets his manners."  
"That's okay," Fawkes said, peering into his cup. It was filled with a milky tan fluid. The steam brought the scent of spices to his nose.  
"Yes, ma'am," Hobbes said, gingerly picking up his porcelain. "Don't worry about it."  
"I know your government is taking great pains to secure my husband's safety. I want you to know that I am very appreciative."  
Fawkes tasted the hot liquid carefully. It had cinnamon, cloves, and other spices. It was also sweeter and lighter than he usually took, but the combination was very good. He took a bigger sip.  
"But, I don't understand," Mrs. Praktuproli continued. "Does the Department of Fish and Game do security work? I thought you were more of an interior environmental department."  
"Well, ma'am, we also have an interest in your husband's safety," Hobbes not-quite lied. "He is a conservationist."  
"Bengal tigers," Fawkes put in, polishing off his tea. Mrs. Praktuproli retrieved a large red teapot from the counter and held it up to him. He nodded eagerly and she poured more of the brew into his cup.  
"Yes, I'm afraid the plight of the tigers is not popular everywhere in my country," the doctor's wife said, taking her chair again. "There are villages in the mountains that have lost lives to these animals. They would just sooner see the tigers killed than saved. What would you do, Agent...Hobbes, is it?"  
"Yes, ma'am. I would...well, I would, um..."  
Fawkes sat back in his chair and grinned. He drank his tea and enjoyed the show as Hobbes tried to stammer around a subject he knew nothing about. Not that had ever stopped Hobbes before. Hobbes had an amazing skill for speaking in convoluted ways until you forgot what he had originally said. Mrs. Praktuproli listened intently, but it was clear from her expression that she was getting lost in the maze of illogic. When Hobbes finally sputtered to the end, she turned to Fawkes. "What do you think?"  
"Me? Well, uh..." It was Hobbes turn to look smug. "Well...I know that the Bengal is one of five subspecies of tigers left in the world. And it's the largest. One of the reasons for its approach to extinction has been the loss of its habitant. Bengals need a lot of space..." He continued on, mostly information culled from shows on the Discovery Channel and nature articles. But at least he made sense and Mrs. Praktuproli's dark eyes danced as she listened to him. Apparently the doctor wasn't the only conservationist.  
An hour and five cups of tea later, Hobbes made noises that they should "get back to our stations". Fawkes was reluctant but knew he was right. He liked Mrs. Praktuproli. She was sort of grandmotherly-if he'd had a grandmother who was poised, sophisticated, and British. He thanked her for the tea and the two left the suite. As they walked down the hallway, their footfalls muffled by the thick carpet, Hobbes snorted.  
"What?" Fawkes asked.  
" 'Because India is one of the most populated countries in the world, and the population is growing faster than the Bengal's can adapt...'," he quoted nasally and huffed again.  
"Hey, that beats 'killing the tigers would be bad, right?'"  
"Where did you come up with that stuff?"  
They stopped at the elevator and Fawkes pushed the button. "They're called 'books', Hobbes. You should try 'em some time."  
"When did you become the professor?"  
"Since I got this thing jammed into my brain and I want to get it out," Fawkes retorted, pointing to his head.  
The elevator dinged and the polished brass doors slid open. Hobbes stepped into the car. "So, is that true, what you said about the gene pool of tigers getting too small?"  
New topic. Hobbes just had to bitch for a minute. Fawkes followed him. "Oh, yeah. See, because they're dying out so quick, they're losing new genetic material..."  
  
The next morning, Dr. Praktuproli wanted to go to the botanical gardens. At Mrs. Praktuproli's request, Hobbes and Fawkes were invited along for the ride. It was a perfect day-sunny, breezy, not too hot, not too cool. She wore a long sky blue dress and had wrapped a soft yellow scarf around her head and shoulders. She smiled brightly and took Fawkes' arm. He was polite and deferential during the whole day, strolling beside the woman, chatting with her. Dr. Praktuproli seemed more relaxed and was bent on teaching Hobbes about botany. Hobbes had no clue what the old man was talking about, but he nodded and murmured the occasional "Uh-huh" and "I see". Just around lunchtime, Dr. Praktuproli visibly sagged. His wife said they should return to the hotel so that her husband could eat and rest before his lecture.  
With the doctor sequestered in his room, Miramontez had all available agents prepare the ballroom. Metal detectors were set up at the entrances. Everyone was issued an ID tag and instructed to keep it visible at all times. Backstage was secured and guards were posted. Every millimeter of space was inspected and cleared. No bombs, no hidden assassins. Just a large room filled with chandeliers and stiff-backed banquet chairs. Hobbes disappeared about an hour and a half before the lecture and reappeared thirty minutes later. He handed a headset and transmitter to Fawkes.  
"Thanks." Fawkes clipped the transmitter to his belt and fitted the earpiece into place.   
"One thing, though." Hobbes said. He lifted Fawkes jackets out of the way and pointed to a tiny switch on the box. "Position A, we're linked to the rest of security. When you go to B, it's just you and me."  
"Cool. So, if I get the urge to whisper sweet nothings to you, I just ask you to go to channel B?"  
Hobbes looked pained. "Ha ha. You're quite a comedian. We've got internal perimeter, funny guy."  
Guests were starting to arrive and the volume in the hall rose dramatically. "Huh?"  
"We're keeping to the outer circular hall that surrounds the ballroom," Hobbes said louder. The metal detector nearby shrieked. The guard manning the gate sent the startled older man back through and instructed him to empty his pockets. Everyone streaming in seemed to definitely be the tweed and pipe set. Or lab geeks. For a second, Fawkes wondered how anyone could take these folks seriously as a threat. Then he reminded himself that things were not always as they appeared. The older man made it through the detector without further incident and proceeded to put his personal effects back into his pockets.  
Hobbes leaned toward Fawkes and the taller man bent down to hear. "But, as long as we're here, I don't see why you can go see-through and snoop around."  
Fawkes nodded his agreement when the metal detector screamed again. They snapped both their heads to see what happened this time, but no one had gone through. The guard had his hand out, holding a thin woman all in black back from the gate. The guards exchange confused glances.  
"They probably have it set too sensitive," Hobbes grumbled, walking away and putting the earpiece in position. But something nagged at Fawkes. He watched as the guard monitoring the equipment checked all his settings and nodded to the guard by the gate. The guard let the woman through. No beep. Fawkes carefully looked around him. He had a weird feeling. Almost like he was being watched.  
  
Hobbes stood just inside the main door to the ballroom. Up on the podium, a really tall, really skinny guy was telling the audience that they were about to be blessed with the keen intelligence of the one and only Dr. Rajinan Praktuproli. Hobbes barely heard. He was busy scanning the high walls of the ballroom, looking for any place an assassin might hide. A ballroom in name, but with a few changes, it could become a little theater. The whole thing was ringed by a tall, narrow hallway that served as an anteroom and a way for performers to get around the audience. Inside, the ceiling was 20 feet from the floor. There were lots of little rooms, used for storage and techs, that would serve as a perfect hiding place for a killer. Fawkes was going to be checking those.  
His earpiece crackled as various agents and police in various locations checked in and declared the all clear. Things had gone too well. Not a hitch or glitch. No sign of this super assassin that had the Official so spooked. If something was going to happen, Bobby Hobbes was ready to bet his life it was going to happen tonight, and soon.  
"Fawkes, you got B?" he whispered into his mike, slipping out of the ballroom and into the cold tiled circular hall.  
"Yeah. Hold on..." was the static-filled reply. He heard a click and he hit his own switch. "Hobbes?" Fawkes came though, loud and clear.  
"Anything?"  
"Nobody here but us chickens."  
"Keep looking."  
"You got it."  
  
Fawkes picked the latest lock. It was hard to do quicksilvered. He never realized how often he relied on being able to see himself. He had to settle for letting the picks go visible. The heavy sound of feet behind him made him freeze. He saw a large agent patrolling the hall and approaching. Fawkes held his breath. The agent paused inches from him, scanned the area, then moved on. Fawkes waited until the agent disappeared around the bend and exhaled with a relieved sigh. He heard and felt the tumbler give. With one quick check, he pushed open the door and stepped in. He shed the quicksilver and looked around. Another tiny room in a series of tiny rooms. Though, this one had three small windows that looked into the main ballroom. Fawkes peeked through one of the opening. Probably a light booth for when the ballroom was used as a theater. The audience roared with applause and he could just make out some movement by the podium. Dr. Praktuproli had no doubt just taken the stage.   
If it weren't for that weird feeling, he would have said that what they were doing was a big fat waste of time. But his gut told him something was up, so he proceeded around the hall, breaking into room after room, burning through a lot of quicksilver because there were many agents patrolling this upper hall.  
Making sure the door was locked again and he was invisible, Darien headed for the stairs. He'd check the rooms on the lower level (where he was supposed to be), so he wouldn't have to saran wrap. He went down, carefully looking around the turns in the stairs to make sure he didn't collide with anyone coming up. The hall was deserted. This led to the main doors. Where was everybody? He listened to his earpiece, hearing the same crackle and talking that he heard before. A voice he didn't recognize was saying "Twenty A? Twenty B? Report." Nothing. Fawkes felt a chill that had nothing to do with the quicksilver. Twenty A and B were supposed to be guarding this hall. He crept along, straining to hear. The voice asked for A and B to report again, then asked Twenty F to check it out. The weird feeling was back with a vengeance.  
"Hobbes?"  
"Yeah," came the reply.  
Fawkes started to jog. "I think we have a problem." He came around the curve and skidded to a halt. Twenty A and Twenty B, formerly known as Bob Gardner and Mike Fitzsimmons, were sprawled on the floor. Their throats had been cut. Blood was everywhere. He fought a wave of nausea, not wanting to look at the gory display, but not able to look away. Gardner's face was turned toward him, the look of surprise a sharp contrast to the meaty mess that had been his neck. Fawkes took a deep breath and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. He could smell the blood. He could practically taste it. The puddles were still bright red. This had just happened.   
Stepping away from the bodies, he broke into a run. "We definitely have a problem!" The main doors were easing into view. One started to crack open. Someone coming out? Fawkes poured on the speed. The door was swinging further open, but he couldn't see anyone coming out. Right before he got to the doors, he thought he detected...something. A shape? A glimmer? Nothing concrete, but he could have sworn-  
He slammed into something. The impact knocked him back on his butt and scattered the quicksilver. Fawkes shook away the daze and looked up. A woman crouched ten feet away. She was just climbing to her feet. He tried to take it as much as he could. She was tall, gaunt, and pale. In dark clothes. But when he got to her eyes, Fawkes froze. They were red. All red. It gave her a strange, alien appearance. Worse yet, he's seen those eyes before. A couple of times, looking in the mirror.  
She smiled an ugly, cold smile. A gun broke into his line of vision, appearing between him and those red eyes. It was big and black and looked like a cannon. Fawkes gathered enough sense to quicksilver and roll away.  
"Hold it!" Hobbes barked. He came from the other direction, his gun with a steady lock on the woman. She twisted to see him, smiled horribly again-and melted from sight. Hobbes lowered the gun slightly. Fawkes was barely able to make out a shape. It was moving, raising an arm...  
"Hobbes! Get down!"  
Hobbes hit the ground and rolled cleanly just as the gun muzzle flared. Fawkes heard an annoyed growl, then the main doors were shot open again. He fumbled to his feet and grabbed the door just as it was about to shut. He pulled himself into the ballroom, still invisible. People seated toward the rear of the ballroom had heard the shot and were uneasily stirring in their seats. A spectator on the aisle got out of his seat and was immediately knocked aside by a force not visible. The crowd gasped as his seatmates tried to catch him. Fawkes sprinted straight down the aisle.   
It wasn't until he was on her again that he could just make out the shape. She stood, feet braced, both hands together, pointing as Praktuproli. Fawkes launched himself and prayed he wasn't throwing his body against empty air. The collision confirmed his eyes weren't deceiving him. He gripped hard and went down. He landed on his side, knocking the wind from his lungs and the quicksilver from his body. The fall did the same for the woman. Silver dust scattered from them both as the hit the carpet. The shot went wide, easily missing the doctor.  
People screamed and started to scramble out of the ballroom. Two Secret Service agents were immediately at Praktuproli's side and hustling him from the podium. Hobbes fought the human tide to get to Fawkes and his prisoner.  
The woman began flailing and struggling to get away. Fawkes tried to hold her but a well-placed kick to his shin made him yell and let go. The woman rolled to her feet and backed away. She had an unpleasant, feral expression. As if she would like nothing better than to kick him to death. Hobbes managed to free himself from the crowd and trained his gun on her again.  
"I said hold it!" He edged to Fawkes, who was trying to regain his feet. "You okay?"  
Shouts of alarm sounded over the radio and two police officers stormed into the room, guns ready. "Yeah, nothing a splint won't fix." Fawkes held his side, still out of breath.   
The woman hunkered lower, like a trapped animal looking for escape. Her red eyes flicked around, looking for a way out. Hobbes kept his sites right between those eyes. More agents burst in from the other side. She looked about wildly, then turned to Fawkes, and laughed. It was a dead sound that made the hair on his neck stand up. Then, quicksilver stole over her body and she began to fade.  
"Don't move!" Hobbes yelled, releasing a shot. The bullet bit into the pulpit without finding a target.  
"Shut this place down!" Fawkes hollered at the increasing numbers of agents and police. "Don't let anyone out!"  
One of the agents on the far side of the room became airborne. Hobbes pointed and said to Fawkes, "Go."  
The yelling and orders on the radio were firing through in an irritating wave. Fawkes tore the earpiece away and he raced in the direction of the downed agent. He hit the outer hall and had to stop. Hysterical people and frustrated agents were clogging his progress. But he soon saw a path being made by an invisible force. People were squawking and yelling and being forcibly moved. Using his arm as a wedge, he dove into the crowd and made for it. At this point, stealth was the least of his worries. He quicksilvered his eyes and scanned the crowd for the odd subtle disturbance. Not as bright as he once thought it would be, but it was better than nothing.  
After what seemed like forever, he broke through to the other side of the crowd. One of the glass outer doors sprang open. He ran for it. Outside, he made himself stop and listen. Footsteps. To his...right. He headed for the end of the building. A commotion just around the corner made him slow down, however. The sounds of a scuffle and a woman's voice shouting, "No!" Had the rest of the security force caught up with her? Just as he came to the corner, a black van nearly flattened him as it sped by. He got a glimpse of movement-someone being pulled in?-and the back door was pulled shut. No license plate. No markings at all. Very neat.  
Fawkes let the quicksilver fall from his eyes as he went around the corner, walking slow now, panting for breath. His leg, where he'd been kicked, was really starting to hurt. He cast about where he thought the fight had occurred. Something gleamed dully in the street light. He bent down to pick it up. A tranquilizer dart with bright yellow fletching. He was still staring at it when Hobbes caught up to him.  
"Anything?"  
Fawkes held up the dart for him to see, then handed it to him. "No. They got away in a black van. No plates."  
"'They'?"  
"Unless she can drive while unconscious, yeah, I'd say it was 'they'."  
  
Despite Fawkes and Hobbes' assurances that the would-be assassin was gone, Miramontez insisted on detaining the guests and interviewing everyone before allowing them to leave. A vast majority of the people just recalled hearing shots. A few people saw a man and a woman tussling on the floor. A couple of those recalled that the pair appeared "out of nowhere". But no one got a good look at the woman. Fawkes had given him the most usable description. Gardner and Fitzsimmons had long since been removed to the ME's office. Around midnight, the ballroom was clear and police were poring over the shooting scene. The police had two bullets and, more importantly, the assassin's gun, knocked from her grip when Fawkes tackled her. They were confident that they would have an ID on the attempted killer very soon.  
Dr. Praktuproli and his wife summoned the duo to their suite. They were effusive with their thanks and gratitude. Mrs. Praktuproli offered to make them tea, but it was working on 1:00am and both Hobbes and Fawkes were exhausted. They had to promise to return the next day to see the couple to their plane for the rest of their trip to Washington. Fawkes had to hand it to the old guy. He was nearly killed, but still ready to do what he had come there to do. In fact, the doctor was still wide awake and talking a mile a minute. Adrenaline. Fawkes had worn out his supply about two hours before.  
They shuffled slowly to the van parked in the hotel's underground garage. "You sure you're okay?" Hobbes asked.  
Fawkes looked at him, beat. "Yeah. Why?"  
"You're limping."  
He looked down at his leg. "Our invisible gal pal kicks like a mule."  
"You should have Keep look at that."  
"Nah. It's okay. Just a bruise."  
Hobbes unlocked the passenger door, allowing him to climb in. Once he had taken his seat behind the wheel, Hobbes allowed himself a moment to sigh and rub his hand over his face. "This is going to be real interesting tomorrow."  
Fawkes knew exactly what he meant. The morning debriefing with the Official was going to be interesting indeed.  
  
They waited in their chairs before the Official's desk. The Man wasn't in just yet but would be in a couple of moments, if Eberts was to be believed. It gave them time to get ready. The two had already discussed how they were going to play this. Fawkes had an early suggestion on punching the fat man in the nose, but cooler notions prevailed. So they waited.  
Soon, the Official trundled into the office, followed close to heel by Eberts. The men waited quietly for their boss to take his seat, hands folded on laps, expressions of nonchalance. Eberts was holding a small box as he took his position behind the Official's right shoulder.  
"Good morning, gentlemen," the Official greeted.  
"Good morning, sir," Hobbes returned with a nod.  
"Morning," Fawkes said.  
"I understand you two had an interesting night."  
"Interesting?" Hobbes asked, as though trying to decipher what he meant. "Oh, yes, we did, sir. We had a very interesting evening."  
"Care to tell me about it?"  
Hobbes looked at his partner. "How is your leg, by the way?"   
"It's a little sore," Fawkes replied calmly.  
"Did you put ice on it last night like I suggested?"  
"Yeah, that seemed to help. Thanks."  
The Official did a slow simmer. They were playing him and he didn't like it. A fight was brewing and he didn't like that either. He didn't much care for having to explain himself. He'd had to do a lot of that lately since putting these two together. "All right..."  
"You know, you could have a hairline fracture," Hobbes continued.  
"You think so?"  
"Can't be too careful."  
"All right," The Official growled.  
"You might want to consider an X-ray," Hobbes continued blithely, as though the fat man weren't even in the room.  
"You know, you could be right. This might be a claim for workmen's comp."  
"All right!"  
"I'm sorry, sir. What was that?"  
Fawkes opened his mouth and the Official shot up one finger and delivered a glare. The kid was a smart-ass but had enough sense to shut his mouth and keep it closed. "Now you know why I wanted the two of you there."  
"Why do you think that was?" Hobbes asked Fawkes.   
"I think it was because of the invisible woman."  
He'd had enough of this game. He roughly cleared his throat and waited for the two of them to look back at him. "Are we done now?" he asked gruffly. "I got a tip and decided to keep any investigation low-profile. I wasn't sure about the claim of invisibility. I wanted someone in there who knew about it, would be able to recognize it or see it as a scam. And who are my resident invisibility experts?"  
Fawkes leaned forward in his chair, all earlier pretenses gone. The kid was not at all happy. "You could have, oh, I don't know, told us what we were up against."  
"I didn't want to prejudice your findings. In case the tipster was pulling my chain."  
"Pulling your..? Prejudice..? Two agents died last night, sir!" Hobbes sputtered.  
"Yes, I know. The law enforcement community lost two very fine-"  
"Do you actually have any feelings at all?" Fawkes demanded. "You didn't see those guys. I did. They were ripped open."  
The Official leveled his ice blue eyes on the young agent. "Son, I've seen things that would turn your hair white."  
Fawkes eyes narrowed and his mouth pulled into a straight line. "Have you seen a crazy person, armed to the teeth, who could turn invisible?"  
"Oh, yes..." He gestured to Eberts, who immediately produced a plastic bag from the box. The Official held it up for them to see. A gun securely wrapped in a police evidence bag.  
"I thought local PD had that," Hobbes said.  
"So did they. After your phone report last night, I made sure it was...liberated from their property room. I thought it would be better if we did the forensic work on this."  
Fawkes was flabbergasted. "So, you're not only a bastard but above the law?"  
"We'll save the ethics discussion for another time. We lifted prints. We know who your shooter is." He snapped his fingers and Eberts handed him a thick folder. He tossed it onto the desk toward Hobbes. After a moment, the senior agent picked it up and flipped it open.  
He read for a minute, his eyes getting wider. Fawkes craned his neck to see. Finally, Hobbes read aloud. "Brenda Kozlowski, 35, and, up until four months ago, an agent with the ATF."  
"What?" Fawkes was out of his seat.  
"The Bureau of Alcohol. Tobacco, and Firearms." He handed the folder to  
Fawkes and stood. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the Official.   
"She was a Fed."  
"A decorated Federal agent, yes."  
"And now she's an assassin?"  
"It would look that way. But I need you two to find out for sure."  
  
Claire insisted on checking Fawkes' leg. He barely noticed as he sat on the table and read the file. The picture looking up at him was familiar and, yet, unfamiliar. The basic description in the file matched. 5'10", brown hair, blue eyes. But there was no way the spectral figure he'd seen last night was 155 pounds. The picture was of a young, robust woman in full health. The woman he'd seen last night had been more of an advertisement for dead. The pale, pasty skin, the dark circles under the eyes, the bony countenance. And the chilling eyes. He got a cold feeling in his gut just remembering them.  
Hobbes had already skimmed the file and now he paced the Keeper's lab. "I thought there was only one gland," he said.  
"Obviously, there's more," she murmured, gently pressing the edges of the bruise.  
"But the Official said there was only one."  
"The Agency only had one made." Satisfied that his leg was all right, Claire took Fawkes' arm and lifted his watch to check the tattoo. Half red. "It would appear that someone has made another one." She let go of the arm and said to Fawkes, "I want you to lay off the invisibility for a while."  
He made a non-committal noise, still engrossed in the file.  
"I thought that was impossible. I thought the only one who knew about it was Fawkes' brother and he's-" He stopped short. Fawkes merely glanced up from the file for a moment.  
"Someone's worked it all out then." She crossed her arms impatiently. She knew Hobbes was just bouncing ideas of her, trying to figure it out. She knew more about the quicksilver gland than anyone in the room and even she didn't know the intricacies of Kevin Fawkes' work. The fact that someone had the genius to figure it out was exciting. And terrifying.  
"So, who would have the ability to make another one?"  
"No one, as far as we know."  
"What about this Arnold Feel guy?"  
"Arnaud du Thiel. No, I doubt it. He worked with Kevin and helped him perfect the gland, but he still didn't completely understand it. That's why he wanted Darien. And Darien's uncles paper."  
Hobbes paced faster, absently pulling on his lower lip. "What kind of resources would someone need to make another magic gland?"  
Claire did some quick calculating. "If they were starting from scratch, they would need a great deal. Time, money, labs, test subjects-"  
"Uh-uh," Hobbes rejected. "They didn't start from scratch."  
"How do you know?"  
"The kid here has had his for just over a year. That wouldn't be enough time for someone to come up with a gland that does the exact same thing. Someone had access to the files, to the research."  
"I told you, I have everything here-"  
"Notice anything weird about the lab lately? Anything seem out of place?"  
While he might have been on the right track, Hobbes paranoia was getting the better of him. "This is a secured facility, Robert. No one gets in without the right codes, keys, and passes."  
"Not upstairs. Anybody can walk in."  
"But down here, they can't." She decided to redirect the conversation. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that somehow, someone got a hold of the research. They grew another gland. They used Agent-" she glanced at the file quickly for reference "-Kozlowski here for a test subject. That still doesn't explain why she killed those other two agents and tried to kill Dr. Praktuproli. To what end?"  
"Gardner and Fitzsimmons? That's easy. They would have sounded that alarm. They would have seen the doors open and checked it out. Plus, she took care of them in the quietest way possible. No gun shots or shouts to alert anyone. As for Praktuproli, who knows? I saw her eyes. She's full-blown wacko. Who knows why nut jobs like that do the things they do?"  
"It was the quicksilver madness, from what you and Darien have told me. Besides, she didn't implant the gland into her own brain. I tend to think there was someone else behind her."  
"Well, maybe she sold out," he said stubbornly.   
Claire fixed him with an impatient glare. "You think she would choose to subject herself to QC madness?"  
"Maybe she got tired of a Fed's salary and wanted to make some more cash."  
"That doesn't make any sense," Darien injected quietly. Claire and Hobbes had become so caught up in their conversation over him that they'd nearly forgotten he was there.  
"It happens every day, my friend," Hobbes told him, jabbing the air between them with a finger. "Cops go bad. They put their ass on the line, day in and day out, and all they see is the bad guys getting richer and fatter. One morning, they wake up and say, 'Why am I getting myself shot at? For what?' The money looks good and pretty soon, they're walking on the dark side." Dramatically stated, but he had a point. Still, when Hobbes stopped for a minute, he wondered why his partner and his partner's Keeper were looking at him like he was a new species of bug. Or that he had lost his mind. "What?"  
"Do you actually...hear yourself when you say this stuff?" Fawkes wanted to know.  
"What? You don't think I don't know?"  
Fawkes swung his legs off the couch and held up the file. "You read this, right?"  
Hobbes stopped to put his fists on his hips. He tilted his chin, defiant. "Yeah."  
"Then what you're saying doesn't make any sense. I mean, look at this." He flipped open the file and burrowed through the pages. "She graduated with honors from high school, then straight into the army. The last year of which, I might add, she spent performing as an MP. She then uses her G.I. bill to put herself through college, getting a degree in law enforcement. She is actively recruited by the DEA, the FBI, and ATF. She starts out with ATF in the Arson unit before moving to Firearms almost five years ago. She is hand selected to work on a task force that brings down an arms dealing ring in Miami. She gets a commendation and a promotion out of the deal."  
Hobbes saw where this was going, but wouldn't admit defeat. "What's your point?"  
"Christ, Hobbes, she's more For God and Country than you! There are letters and recommendations stuffed into this file. From her trainers, supervisors, co-workers. Did you read these?"  
Hobbes shuffled his feet. "I didn't get into all the details..."  
Fawkes went to the first letter. "'Outstanding'. 'Highly professional'." He referred to the next letter and the next. "'Unsurpassed loyalty'. 'A credit to her unit'. 'Keen insight' Another 'outstanding'. All of these people can't be wrong. She probably sleeps wrapped in the flag."  
Real offense tugged at Hobbes' mouth. "Watch it, pal."  
"You get my point. Until four months ago, Brenda Kozlowski here was the model government employee."  
"Ha!" Hobbes shouted, seeing his opening. "Then she quit! She got offered more money and she split Uncle Sam's payroll."  
"No," Fawkes told him with force patience, "she asked for a leave of absence."  
Claire leaned over his shoulder. "Can I see that?" she asked, holding out her hand. Fawkes handed her the file and got to his feet.   
"Quit, leave of absence, whatever,"  
"Actually, it is a big difference," Claire murmured as she paged through the contents.  
"Oh yeah? How?"  
Good God, Hobbes was obstinate. "If she had simply quit, that would indicate her possible motive, according to your scenario. A leave of absence shows that she had every intention of returning to her post." She hefted the folder and looked at Fawkes. "This is an awfully comprehensive dossier. Eberts got this put together in one night?"  
She had put her finger on something that had been nagging at Fawkes. "Hey. Yeah. Eberts is efficient, but this-"  
"Is a file we've had for quite some time."  
All three snapped their attention to the doorway where the Official stood, shadowed by Eberts.   
"What are you talking about?' Hobbes asked.  
The big man entered and pointed briefly to the paper's in the Keeper's hands. "We're very familiar with Agent Kozlowski."  
Fawkes leaned a hip against the couch, folding his arms, suspicion clouding his face. "Would that be the Agency 'we' or the royal 'we'?"  
The Official ignored him. "Agent Kozlowski was one of the people considered for the original Project Quicksilver." When three jaws fell open, he allowed himself a moment of glee. God, he loved his job. "She made it to the final five. The only female to make it that far." His tone suggested his admiration.  
"But you went with Simon Cole," Fawkes said.  
"Yes."  
"Why?" Claire wanted to know.  
The Official saw the irritated suspicion cloud the Keeper's brow and knew why she asked. "When all things were considered, it was decided that a man would be a more...practical choice. If Agent Kozlowski had been Brian instead of Brenda, we would have gone with her."  
The Keeper's face flushed crimson. "That's sexual discrimination!"  
The Official shrugged and looked at her matter-of-factly. "Yes. It was."  
"Of all the-!" Claire swore in a very colorful Australian way and slammed the folder down on the couch.  
"Wait a minute," Fawkes said, holding up a hand. Claire continued to swear under her breath behind him. "Are you telling me that this woman was originally going to get the gland?"  
"In theory, she was the most qualified. She had all the characteristics we were looking for. In practice, however..." Claire used a string of words that made Hobbes blush.   
"Well, she has one now," Fawkes observed with irony.  
"Yes. And I want you and Hobbes to find out how that happened."  
"And how are we supposed to do that?"  
"Investigate. You two are government agents. Investigating is what you do."  
"Uh-huh. I don't suppose you have somewhere we can start?"  
"You said you got a tip, sir," Hobbes put in, moving into the conversation. "If you told us who that person is, perhaps we could speak to them."  
"I couldn't give up a source, Bobby. But now it's a moot point anyway."  
  
Senator Climes' office was crawling with police and special investigators. While the senator wasn't too popular with the public or his colleagues, it was their job to find out who killed him. On "leave" from the Senate (rumor had it, because he had a nasty habit of approving and nurturing covert government causes), his office hadn't been touched. Considering the information contained in the files and computer, that seemed odd. But the senator's killer had one goal and had fulfilled it. Cleanly, coolly, and efficiently. One shot to the back of the head had quickly separated the senator from his right wing partisan brain. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints, hairs, or fibers. There had been no struggle. Senator Climes had apparently known his killer, let him in, sat at his desk, and let the trigger be pulled. At least that's what the exasperated police lieutenant told them when they asked.  
Hobbes and Fawkes walked out of the office building and to the parking lot. "I wonder if that was more of Kozlowksi's handiwork," Hobbes tossed at Fawkes.  
"I doubt it. The ME put time of death at around 3:00 am."  
"So?"  
"I think Sleeping Beauty would still have been out of it by then."  
"C'mon, Fawkes. We don't even know if she's the one who took that dart."  
"With my past experience, I think I can safely say that where QC crazy goes, tranquilizer darts are sure to follow." He pushed his sunglasses onto his nose. "Besides, something tells me that Climes wasn't burning the midnight oil when he was visited."  
Hobbes had been thinking the same thing, but he wanted to see where his partner got his view. "Oh?"  
"The desk was clean. The computer was off."  
"The killer could have turned that off," Hobbes pointed out, unlocking the van door.  
"True, but I don't think so. Cops said they found Climes with his coat and tie on. Nothing on the desk, not even a steno pad. He was there to meet someone. And I think that someone killed him."  
Hobbes nodded his approval as Fawkes joined him in the van. "Not bad, kid. We may turn you into a good agent yet." Fawkes didn't rise to the bait but stared through the windshield. "Hey."  
"Huh?"  
"You okay? You've been weird all morning."  
Fawkes turned his gaze out the passenger window. "I'm fine. I'm just...thinking."  
"About Kozlowski?" Fawkes nodded. "Don't get too torn up about her, pal. She's a killer. Worse. She's a cop killer."  
Fawkes snatched off his glasses and turned on him. "Is she? Is she really? Then what am I?" he said it with more force than he intended.   
"You haven't killed anyone."  
"Yes I have."  
"That was self-defense."  
"I almost killed you. A couple of times."  
"That was different. That was-" Fawkes narrowed his eyes and Hobbes saw where this was going. He cranked the key in the ignition. "Oh, so it's the insanity defense, huh? 'I'm sorry, your Honor, it wasn't my fault. I was loony at the time'."  
Fawkes glared at him. "Yeah, that's pretty much it."  
"Forget it, Fawkes. I'm not buying." He backed out of the slot and took them to the exit.  
"You don't know what it's like, Hobbes. To go crazy like that. One minute, you're having an intelligent conversation. The next, all you want to do is kill people." His tone was strained, his throat tight.  
The van eased into the flow of traffic. "All I know is, you've never killed anybody when you were whacked out. There's something in you that stops you short. You haven't maimed anyone or gone on any murder sprees."  
Fawkes looked back out his window, watching traffic rush by. Hobbes didn't get it. It stung that his partner didn't. Fawkes sighed. "Yet..." he told the glass.   
  
Fawkes had been sullen and silent all day. Hobbes finally stopped trying to pry that particular bug out of his partner's ass. If Fawkes wanted to get hung up on the fact that their chief suspect was a woman, fine. He, however, had no such failings. The woman was a stone killer, gland or not. Their job was to figure out how to find her and bring her in. Maybe she'd resist and he'd have to shoot her. Wouldn't that be too bad.  
A call from the big guy got them access to the Climes crime scene after the cops had left. Not that he expected to find much. He had a copy of the police report, and even though local didn't know what they were dealing with, they'd been thorough. He didn't think they would have left much behind for him to see, but it never hurt to be diligent. While he checked the desk, Fawkes went through the file cabinets. The locks had been stripped from the furniture to better give police access. Half of everything was gone. Even the CPU from the computer was gone. Hobbes sat in the senator's chair and looked across the office at his partners back. Fawkes was bent over something, focused and concentrating. Hobbes got up from the last place Climes had been alive and approached. Wha'd'ya got?"  
"Don't know," Fawkes mumbled.  
Hobbes peered around his arm. He couldn't tell from his vantage what Fawkes was looking at, but it sure had the taller man's attention. "Lemme see."  
"Hold on a minute."  
Damn it if he wasn't acting like a big spoiled kid. "Fork it over, Fawkes."  
The muscles in Fawkes' jaw bunched. For a split second, Hobbes thought he actually might hit him. But after leveling a deadly stare at Hobbes, he slapped the folder against the senior agent's chest and stalked away. Hobbes watched him with annoyance. Fawkes had better straighten up and get with the program. He wasn't going to put up with this all day. Hobbes opened the folder.  
The first page was a spreadsheet, just a bunch of numbers. Some kind of financial report? It was a few pages long and made no sense to him, so he skipped to the next bunch of paper. This looked like some kind of memo. A note from Climes to some group called Cognitive Trust, encouraging them to carefully weigh the expense of the project with the possible outcome. Project? Hobbes quickly went through the pages until he found something he recognized. Letterhead from the Department of Fish and Game. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"  
Fish and Game was officially declaring itself the sponsor and supervisor of Project Quicksilver.  
He looked up at Fawkes. The younger man was watching him, hands shoved into his back pockets, looking frankly pissed. "Guess we know how the fat man knew Climes," he said with venom.   
"Why? Looks like he didn't like where Quicksilver was headed. This one sounds like he's trying to talk somebody out of it."  
"Or maybe he decided to start his own project and didn't like where it went."  
"That wouldn't nece-"  
"Read the file, man!" Fawkes exploded. "Climes was all over Quicksilver. He and the Man were thick. Then, all of a sudden, Climes backs out. And he later goes back to tip the Official about an experiment gone wrong? What's wrong with this picture?"  
Well, at least he was talking. "Fawkes, look-"  
"No, you look! I'm tired of all this crap. You do what you want. I'm going to talk to the fat man." His long legs carried him quickly to the door and he was out of the office.  
"Fawkes! Come back here! You're just gonna..." Ah, what was the use. The kid did what he wanted, regardless of orders. Let the Official deal with this tantrum. Hobbes had work to do.  
  
"And if you just sign here, sir, I'll get these processed." Eberts pointed to the appropriate place on the form. The Official's pen was poised over the dotted line when his office door burst open. Fawkes stormed in and made straight for the desk. He stood over his boss and glowered down at him.  
"Good afternoon, Agent Fawkes," the Official said blandly. "Nice to see you. Thank you for knocking."  
"I want you to tell me what the hell is going on."  
"Mr. Fawkes," Eberts began. "We're rather busy right now. If you could come back-"  
"Shut up, Eberts!" Fawkes barked. The aid blanched.  
"I don't have the time right now, kid. As you can see, I have quite a bit on my plate."  
Fawkes leaned down and swept his hands across the desk. Paper flew and fluttered everywhere. Eberts made a desperate grab, trying to stop the snowfall. On the now-clean desk, Fawkes planted his hands and leaned forward. "Looks like your calendar just cleared."  
The Official felt his blood pressure shoot up, but he wasn't going to let this hothead see that. He continued to gaze at the young man calmly. Eberts was scrambling to collect errant forms while he and Fawkes continued to try to stare each other down. Finally, without moving his eyes, the Official said, "Eberts, give us a minute."  
"But sir..." Fawkes pinned him with a look that suggested if he kept talking, he was going to wake up next week. "Yes, sir." He gathered what he'd been able to salvage and edged to the door, Fawkes' eyes on him the entire time. Once Eberts was out of his line of sight, Fawkes refocused on the Official and waiting for the click of the door before he spoke again.  
"What's the matter? One invisible agent's not enough for you?"  
"Kozlowski isn't ours."  
"Uh-huh. She just happens to have a gland just like mine. Can't get enough of messing with people, can you?"  
The Official leaned back in his chair, completely unruffled by Fawkes questioning and anger. "I'm telling you the truth. I wanted you and Hobbes to figure out who was behind her and, hopefully, bring her in."  
"It makes it a little difficult for us to do our job when you don't tell us what we need to know."  
"Meaning?"  
"Meaning I was just in Climes' office. I found an old file about the original Project Quicksilver. He helped you get the original funding."  
The Official considered for a moment, then, "Yes."  
"And now he's dead. Your handiwork?"  
"Climes was a friend."  
What little remained of Fawkes' patience was wearing thin. "So was Charles Fogerty." It was a deliberate, mean dig, meant to elicit a response. And Fawkes wasn't disappointed. "What'sa matter, fat man? Climes wouldn't keep buying into your mad scientist routine and was going to blow the whistle, so you had him bumped off?"  
The older man leaned forward, putting his nose inches from the agent's. His ice-blue eyes had turned to steel. "You don't know what you're talking about, punk."  
Now that he'd made his point, Fawkes eased off a little. "Then enlighten me." He settled into a chair, crossed his legs, and waited.   
It took a moment for the Official to get his anger under control. Once he had that accomplished, he nearly laughed. The kid certainly knew how to push buttons. Fawkes' insight and intelligence surprised him daily. "The senator and I worked for a long time to get Project Quicksilver off the ground. I could get the talent. He could get the money. But Climes had other ideas for the project. His plans for an invisible man were a bit too proactive. He wanted to have an invisible assassin available to 'handle' enemies of the United States. He wasn't much for negotiation or due process."  
"Isn't that what you wanted? You picked Simon Cole over Brenda Kozlowski."  
"Unfortunately, Climes made that ultimate decision. It was the Agency's project, but he had the purse strings. When Quicksilver...failed, we wanted to move onto I-Man. We almost lost the project all together. Finally, dumb luck was on our side. Climes couldn't convince the money people that his way was the right way and threatened to walk. They called his bluff. After that, the Agency was given more ownership of the program. That's when you came along."  
"So you two fell out?"  
"More a difference of opinion. I knew Roger Climes for a long time. We didn't often see eye to eye, but we respected each other."  
"So, the tip came from him?"  
"Yes."  
"Why?"  
The Official pushed himself out of his chair with a labored sigh. He went to the window and peered through the aluminum blinds. "I'm not sure. He didn't say much. Just that a hit had been called out against the doctor and that it related to Project Quicksilver."  
"Do you think he was involved somehow?"  
That unpleasant thought had been circling through the Official's mind all day. "I don't know for sure," he answered honestly. "Roger leaned more toward political assassination. This seems more like a contract hit."  
Fawkes watched him carefully, trying to read the tiny cracks in the armor. "He knew the when and the where..."  
"I know."  
"Did he have access to the Quicksilver research?"  
"Not enough to manufacture another gland."  
"But he knew about Brenda?"  
"Of course. He was the one who rejected her."  
Fawkes fell silent and sunk into thought. The Official watched as the young man stared through the desk and chewed the inside of his cheek. Hobbes had the experience and the kid had the lateral thinking. He had done a good job pairing them up. They were also the right ones to do this job. He went back to his chair and sat down. Fawkes looked at him, his earlier anger gone.  
"Roger Climes got into something he didn't want and paid for it. Unfortunate, but that was the kind of business he conducted. But, for what it's worth, kid, I feel responsible for Kozlowski. I don't know how she got tangled up with this, or how far her cooperation goes, but I would appreciate it if you and Hobbes would find out. She was a good agent. My gut tells me that this isn't all her fault."  
Fawkes nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Mine, too."  
  
Hobbes bit into the burrito that was as big as his head. He felt some sauce drip onto his chin and wiped it away with a rough paper napkin. It was a good day for a picnic. With Fawkes gone to piss off the Official, maybe he'd get to enjoy his dinner in peace. No such luck. Across the street, Fawkes got out of a cab, paid the driver, and jay walked over. Damn. He was going to have to stop being so predictable. Hobbes ignored him and went back to his burrito. Fawkes ambled over and dropped into the chair opposite. Not a good plan. Never sit with your back to the street or the door. Hobbes took another bite. "Well?" he said around a mouthful of beef and beans. Fawkes eyed his meal. "You want some? You buy your own." He hitched a thumb to the taco stand beside them.  
"Gee, thanks."  
Hobbes managed to swallow half the bite. "Hey, you ran out on your partner, hot shot. I don't buy dinner for that kind of behavior." He took a healthy swig of his cola and washed the rest down.  
"Did you have any luck at Climes' office?"  
"Oh, so now you want to know. Funny, you seemed more interested in pitching a fit before."  
"Okay, enough. I'm sorry, Hobbes. I shouldn't have left like that."  
Hobbes set down the burrito and pointed at his partner. "Damn straight, you shouldn't have! As it happens, I did have luck today."  
"What did you find?"  
"Enough info about Climes' bank to make some inquiries. Seems the senator made some substantial withdrawals from his old money accounts over the last few months."  
"Substantial?"  
An airplane roared over head. Hobbes took the opportunity to tear another bite from his dinner. As the jets faded, he told his partner, "Millions."  
"What did he do with it?"  
"That I don't know. Yet. The money just went poof. But I'm working on it." Fawkes was subdued now. Not withdrawn, like earlier. Just quiet. At least he wasn't sulking around. "You talk to the boss?"  
"Yep."  
"What did he have to say?" Hobbes really hoped it had been something along the lines of "Get the hell out of my office".  
"That Climes was involved with the original Project Quicksilver and wanted to use it to make a squad of government killers."  
"Hunh. Sounds like he got his wish."  
Fawkes shot him an impatient glance. "And he wants us to find Brenda and bring her in."  
"Oh? Brenda, is it? We're on a first name basis with our cop killer?"  
"I don't think it's her fault, Hobbes."  
The older man snorted in disgust. "Yeah, you keep saying that."  
Fawkes slapped the tabletop. "What is with you, huh? You're so quick to damn her!"  
"And you're so quick of defend her."  
"Because I could easily be her!"  
Hobbes sucked a piece of meat from between two molars and calmly regarded his partner. "Sex change fantasies aside, no, you couldn't. You haven't killed two Federal agents."  
Exasperated, Fawkes raked a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. "Could try, just for a second, to have a little pity?"  
"I do. For Gardner's and Fitzsimmons' families."  
Fawkes held up his hands and glared at Hobbes. "Whatever, man. I'm not having this conversation with you anymore."  
"That's good. Because we have to get to the airport to see off the doc and the missus. If your heart is done bleeding, we'd better get going."  
  
The week was dragging. Fawkes got antsy and impatient with the drudgework. Hobbes had recruited Eberts to dig into some computer records to see if he could find out what happened to Climes' money. A total of nearly 5 million had been pulled out of various accounts, but all of it with direct approval of Climes. So much for Hobbes' theft theory. Eberts proved to be quite adept at hacking, breaking into bank records with ease. Long hours were spent in Hobbes' office, the two hunched by the computer. Fawkes had tried to feign interest, but money shown in a spreadsheet didn't captivate him the way looking at an actual pile of bundled bills did. Besides, there wasn't much room for him and Hobbes and Eberts were intent on their project. So, he took to pacing a lot. At one point, he discovered a tennis ball hiding behind a file cabinet. Hobbes didn't strike him as the tennis type, but whatever. He lobbed the ball against the wall next to the door. It hit the ugly linoleum on the way back and he caught it. He threw it again, harder this time, snatching the ball out of the air before it got past him. He started a steady rhythm, the ball making solid wock wock wock sounds against the drywall. The harder he threw, the wilder the ball went, forcing him to work harder to catch it. It felt good to move around. Beat standing or sitting all day.  
"Fawkes!"  
The shout made him start and he almost missed the ball. He then turned. Both Eberts and Hobbes glared at him from the computer. It took him a moment to realize why they were upset with him. Tennis ball in one hand, he put both arms behind his back. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.  
The next day, they were in the office again. Eberts and Hobbes continued to go to cyber places they really shouldn't. Fawkes sprawled in one of the chairs. Legs thrown out, neck resting on the back cushion, he stared at the ceiling. This was killing him. Forget the gland-this waiting was going to make him insane. There had to be something he could do besides the tedious paperwork Eberts and Hobbes were plowing through. He tried asking. Hobbes informed him that they needed to find out where Climes sent his money before they would know how to proceed. "Rule number one; follow the money, my friend." How very Hobbesian. He tried counting the holes in the acoustic tile but lost his place. He was feeling very sluggish. A nap would be nice, but he would probably catch hell if he started snoring. He couldn't take it anymore and offered to go get coffee. Both of the other men absently agreed. Fawkes took the longest way through town, just so he could stretch his legs.  
The day after that, Fawkes tried to while away some of the time in the lab with the Keeper. But Claire was deeply involved in a paper and not too communicative. He went down the hall to the impromptu gym and burned off some nervous energy with weights. After a quick shower and a fresh change of clothes, he decided he should at least put in an appearance. Eberts and Hobbes were in their same spots. It was as though they had never moved since sitting down two days ago. The only difference was the pile of print outs beside them was taller.  
"How's it going, guys?" he tried.  
Hobbes glanced up briefly. "I think we're on to something."  
"Yeah? What?"  
Hobbes pointed at something on the screen. "What's that?"  
Eberts peered where Hobbes pointed. "Crossco Shipping? I saw something about that earlier. Hold on..." He used the mouse to click through several screens. "Here we are. Crossco is a division of the Climes family business empire. They have an dock at the pier."  
"What's all this?" Hobbes pointed again and leaned closer to the screen.  
"It appears that Senator Climes had everything moved out several months ago."  
"Moved? Where?"  
Eberts typed, then, "Several places, all away from Dock 14."  
Fawkes could tell by his partner's expression that they were hot on the trail. He moved to join them behind the monitor. Several windows were open and the aid was clicking from one to another to piece the information together.  
"What's going on?" Fawkes asked.  
Hobbes turned to him. "Remember all that money Climes moved out of his accounts?" Fawkes nodded. "It took a while, but Eberts here found out what happened to it."  
"He hid it," Eberts said simply, continuing to work.  
"Where?"  
"Everywhere, pal. And he took great pains to do it. He used at least three dummy companies to cover it up. But from what we can figure, it ended up with a bunch calling themselves Cognitive Trust."  
"You mean the money behind..?" Fawkes gestured at the back of his head.  
"Looks like. And now we're finding out that he broke up his shipping company."  
"It's actually not that big of a venture, Agent Hobbes. Crossco is a relatively small operation."  
"But it was making money, " Hobbes pointed out. "Good money. Even a fat cat like Climes wouldn't mess with a solid income unless it was important."  
"You said Climes had everything moved away from Dock 14?" Fawkes asked the aid.  
"Yes. Crossco is still functioning, but now it has no central location. Much of the shipping is being farmed out to other companies."  
"So what is left at Dock 14?"  
Eberts called up the information, then shrugged. "Nothing. The dock has been cleared of all equipment and personnel."  
Fawkes and Hobbes looked at each other, instantly aware that they were sharing the same thought. "Feel like going down to the pier for some fishing?" Hobbes asked.  
Finally! "You bet."  
  
Eberts had immediately reported their findings to the Official, including Hobbes and Fawkes' plan to go down to the dock. The Official was adamant that they take back up. When Hobbes nodded sagely, agreeing, Fawkes cast him a questioning look. The place was supposed to be empty. But he kept his opinions to himself and got into the van while four severe-looking agents climbed into a sedan and followed them. Could they be more obvious? The car so was nondescript, it screamed "Fed mobile!" And their backup couldn't look more like cops trying not to look like cops if they tried. Not for the first time, Fawkes wondered how the Agency got anything accomplished.  
Seagulls wheeled and cried overhead. The air became briny. Hobbes steered the van deeper to the pier and parked by a large warehouse bearing a sign of "Dock 14". Hobbes went to the back door of the van and pulled out a large fiberglass briefcase. He unsnapped the locks and proceeded to distribute weird looking goggles to the other men. "These are on loan, guys, so don't break them." To Fawkes' puzzled expression, he explained, "Thermal readers."  
"You mean, to see hot temperatures?"  
"Yup. And cold."  
Realization broke through. "You think she's here."  
"I don't know, but you can't be too careful." He held out a pair to Fawkes.  
The other man shook his head and pointed at his eyes. "Got my own."  
Hobbes shrugged and turned to the other agents. "We don't know what we have in here. It may be nothing. But we may also have the killer of two Federal agents inside. She's lethal and fast and you'll need these-" he hefted his own goggles "-to see her. She got away from us once, gentlemen. Let's not let it happen again."  
Fawkes gaped at him. He was baiting these guys. Like dangling fresh meat in front of a pack of hungry dogs. Hobbes was going to get them so worked up that they would shoot first and ask questions later.  
"We may also have other perpetrators in here. So let's do this by the numbers. You two, take the north. You two, south. Agent Fawkes and I are going inside. We're all within range, so yell if you need help."  
"And let's try to capture this woman alive," Fawkes threw in. Hobbes shot him a glare. The four agents looked at him impassively, like they hadn't even heard. Hobbes gave them a signal and they headed off for their areas. Fawkes waited until they were out of earshot, then leaned into Hobbes. "Maybe we can paint a bullseye on her back," he growled.  
"I'm not having this discussion with you, Fawkes." Hobbes shut the case, put it away, and shut the van. All the while not looking at him. He looped the goggles around his neck. "If she's here, she's not getting away again."  
"But-"  
"No! No buts!" Fawkes was looking down at a very angry and determined face. "If she's here, it ends here! I'm not losing anymore people to her. Now shut up and come on."  
Fawkes waited until Hobbes was almost in the building. Then he reopened the van doors and dug around in back. He hoped Hobbes still had it back here. The back was crammed with so much gear it was hard to tell. Then he saw the familiar attaché, stuffed under the gurney next to the wall, toward the passenger seat. He leaned in and had to stretch to reach it. He managed to snag the handle a couple of time, enough to tip the case toward him so that he could get a better grip. He banged his elbow hauling it out, but finally had what he was looking for. Fawkes unsnapped the case and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in stiff foam, was a tranquilizer gun. Nestled beside it were four filled darts. This was actually for him. If he ever flipped out away from the office, Hobbes wanted to have the means to knock him out. He'd found it one night while they were on stake out. Hobbes was unapologetic and Fawkes didn't blame him. He'd nearly killed his partner twice. But, it was weird knowing that this thing was in the van. And weirder that it was going to be put to use against an insane invisible person. Just not him. This time.   
He loaded two darts into the chamber and hoped it would be enough. Then he pushed the gun into his back waistband and shut the van. When he joined Hobbes at the door, the older man was waiting impatiently. "You done jerking around? Can we go in now?"  
"Yeah. Let's go."  
The door wasn't locked, which immediately set off alarm bells for both of them. Hobbes brought his gun up and held Fawkes back with an arm. He eased into the gloom, efficiently scanning the interior. Then he waved Fawkes in. As Fawkes slowly entered the dim warehouse, something in his peripheral vision made him stop. He looked down and to his left. A sensor was mounted just inside the door. Hobbes had already broken the beam. Right now, the thin red line rested on his pant leg. Ah crap. "Hobbes."  
"What?" Hobbes turned and followed Fawkes' eyes down. "Damn!" He quickly fished a small radio out of his pocket. "This place has security," he informed the other agents tersely. "They know we're here."  
Both teams acknowledged and the radio went silent. Hobbes and Fawkes looked at each other, trying to figure out this new wrinkle. Fawkes finally said, "Well, they know we're here... May as well join the party."  
They looked around them, better to survey now that their eyes had adjusted. The place was huge and practically empty. A few battered pallets here and there, a couple of discarded trash barrels, but nothing else. Light filtered in from windows twelve feet from the floor. It looked like it has been a warehouse or holding house. A rusting forklift was parked in a distant corner. And the creepiest thing was, it was deathly silent. Fawkes couldn't hear anything from the outside once he shut the door. The place had good insulation...  
A crunch echoed in the cavernous space. Both he and Hobbes froze. There it was again. The sound of a foot coming down on the grit on the floor. Hobbes peered into the shadows of the far end, willing his eyesight sharper. It could be one of his own men. But he couldn't see anything.  
Then, a mad, hideous laugh.  
They'd both heard that laugh before and it made their skin crawl again. The footfalls sounded in rapid succession, headed straight for them. Just as Hobbes was about to pull his goggles down, quicksilver shattered and fell away from the woman. She was making a beeline for them from the farthest corner of the warehouse. She strode quickly and with purpose, pinning them both with a red stare. Pale and black clad, she moved at them like a Fury.  
"Shit," Hobbes breathed, reaching again for the radio. Without breaking stride, she raised her gun. Fawkes had just enough time to shove Hobbes hard and activate the gland for himself. He felt the breeze of the bullet go past his nose as he stumbled back. She kept coming, now focused on a target she could see. Hobbes found his radio, which was already crackling with alarm. "Get in here!"  
Quicksilver shimmered around her and she disappeared. Fawkes tried to see the pale shadow he'd seen before. But she was too far from him. And Hobbes was in the open. He headed toward the sound of her feet. His hi-tops made their own noise and he was sure he wouldn't be able to sneak up on her, but he could at least distract her. Hobbes had pulled his goggles down and was watching her approach. "Fawkes?" he called, working hard to keep the panic out of his voice.  
The quicksilver broke apart again, trailing in the wake of her rapid pace. Hobbes fumbled with the goggles, unable to see her at the current setting. He finally pushed them up, just as she disappeared again. She rapidly appeared and vanished, messing with Hobbes' ability to find her. Fawkes had enough time to marvel at her control of the gland. The evil smile on her face said she knew exactly what she was doing.  
A door slid open, letting in two of the other agents in. Daylight flooded in and gave Fawkes the contrast he needed. Barely visible, like a weak shadow, he saw her silhouette. And made straight for her.  
She came out of the quicksilver again, barely ten feet from Hobbes. She didn't react to the sound of running until it was too late. Hit from the side, she appeared to fly a couple of feet before crashing to the floor. This time, she didn't drop her gun. She brought it up, pointing it at the weight on her. Fawkes was staring right down the barrel. He grabbed her wrist and used his body weight to push her arm away. The woman began to flail and scream. For someone who looked so sickly, she was frighteningly strong. Now all four agents were in the warehouse, running toward the struggling pair. Guns drawn. He shed the quicksilver so that they could see him and wouldn't start firing. The woman abruptly stopped fighting. She looked up at him, her face unreadable. She held still while they were both surrounded by five guns. "Don't shoot," he pleaded, looking at Hobbes for confirmation. The older agent had the woman in his sights. He wanted to pull the trigger. But he gave Fawkes an almost imperceptible nod and eased back slightly. One of the other agents reached down and carefully took the gun from her grasp. She still didn't move, just stared at Fawkes. He breathed a sigh. Maybe nobody would have to get hurt...  
With a shriek, the woman brought her knee up sharply, connecting with Fawkes' groin. Pain blinded him and he let go, which gave her the leverage she needed to push him into the agents behind him. He didn't see her go invisible, but he heard the yell of one of the agents who reached down on his shin to staunch a flow of blood. Fawkes curled up on the floor, hunched over his injured crotch, while the agent joined him, shouting, "The bitch cut me!"  
Suddenly, goggles were snatched off heads and sailed away, landing on the floor with a crackle from the broken lenses. The crunch of running feet headed away. One of the agents bent down to help his injured friend. The other two took off, trying to follow her on sound alone. Fawkes managed to push himself up on his knees, but couldn't straighten up enough to bring his head off the floor. Hobbes was over him. "You okay?"  
No, he wasn't okay. Breathing was difficult, he was seeing stars, and the pain kept radiating from below his belt. "Yeah. Sure. Just great," he rasped.  
"Stay put." Hobbes went to the broken goggles and managed to find a pair still in good condition. He slipped them on, got his target, and was in pursuit. When Fawkes could finally unfold himself enough to look up, Hobbes was disappearing through a door at the far end. The uninjured agent was using his radio to call for medics. The cut was bleeding badly. Fawkes crawled over to the man.   
"You okay?" he managed.  
The agent was grimacing in pain, but nodded. "What about you?"  
"Oh, I should be okay in about a year." He carefully picked himself up off the floor and tried to stand up. When that didn't work, he settled for slightly bent, resting his hands on his knees.  
The two men eyed him, sympathy etched on their faces. "Maybe you should stay here," the healthy agent suggested.  
As much as he would love to, he had to get to her. Hobbes would want blood now. He was the only way she was going to stay alive. He looked at the red soaked handkerchief on the one agent's leg. "Ambulance on the way?" The other agent nodded. "Good. I may need it when I'm done."  
The first steps were painful, but he was gradually able to move faster and straighter as he went along. By the time he reached the door, he was just in pain, not screaming agony. He expected the door to lead into another warehouse or office. He was caught off guard when he discovered the narrow, walled in stairway. It was a recent addition. No one had painted the sheetrock. It hung like an industrial quilt, fading from gray to black as the shadows consumed it. There was no light at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't like this one bit. There was a yell, a crash, then Hobbes swore. Silence. Convinced he was going to be sorry, Fawkes eased down the claustrophobic stair well.  
At the bottom, he found that it wasn't completely dark. Emergency lights gave enough watery illumination to make one's way around and that was about it. Fawkes doubted he would be able to see her, quicksilvered or not. He looked around, getting his bearings. The place reminded him of an emergency room. A lot of little cubbyholes and alcoves, but no real floor plan. He noted the equipment, similar to what the Keeper had in her lab. His bad feeling was getting worse by the minute. He couldn't see past the inky shadows, so he strained to hear more from his team. There was movement-shuffling, murmured voices-but unlike the warehouse, the acoustics in here sucked. Every sound was muffled and he couldn't get a fix on locations. He considered calling out to Hobbes and decided against it. The crazy lady was down here, too. He just hoped Hobbes wouldn't shoot him in his zeal.  
Fawkes just picked a direction and started out. Maybe luck would be on his side and-  
He was yanked into one of the darker alcoves and slammed face-first into the wall. He opened his mouth to yell at Hobbes when he felt a blade pressed against his throat. "Don't breathe," a deep female voice instructed him. His ankles were kicked apart and he automatically put his hands against the wall. He couldn't see her. She had to be quicksilvered. An invisible hand ran over his jacket sleeves, then started at his ankles. He tensed. She was going to find the dart gun in his belt any second. Her hand was running up his inseam and collided gently with his groin. Fawkes flinched.  
"What's wrong? Did the girl give the big strong man a boo-boo?"  
"Brenda, let me help you."  
She chuckled deep in her throat and moved her hand to his butt. She wasn't frisking him anymore. She pulled in close, sandwiching him between her body and the wall. "What is it that you want to help me with, stud?" She closed her hand and gripped one buttock hard. He could feel her ice cold hand through the fabric. "Are you going to help me with this?" Her hand shot around to the front and she took a fistful of his damaged parts. New pain flared. Fawkes gritted his teeth but kept still. He felt her press into him, then she froze. She'd found the gun. Ah crap. "Now what could this be?"  
The situation was screwed. She was going to take the gun, kill him, and then go after the others. And eventually end up dead herself. She lifted his jacket and pulled the dart gun out of his belt. She was quiet for a long time. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder and he was flipped around. She let go of the quicksilver, appearing before him, an ugly look of hate on her face. She held up the gun. "I really, really don't like these," she snarled. "Now I need to decide if I should shoot you in the eye or cut open your lying throat."  
Pure, cold fear bloomed in his stomach. In the dim light, her eyes looked black. And she was so far beyond sane, he didn't think she could even be brought back. She wanted to kill him slowly. And she would enjoy it. "Brenda-"  
"Shut up!" she hissed, lunging forward to press the gun against one side of his throat and the knife against the other. He felt the razor sharp blade break the top layers of skin. She wasn't cutting. Not yet, anyway. She pulled in close, pressing the length of her body against his. She smelled sour, like old sweat and something else. She put her face into his and whispered, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't gut you right here."  
"Because I'll blow your goddamned head off if you do," Hobbes informed her. Neither had seen or heard his approach. He had a bead drawn on the back of her skull. "Back away, sweet heart, or I'll drop you right now."  
She considered that. She actually didn't seem that concerned. She regarded Hobbes coolly for a moment before taking a step back. Fawkes snatched the tranq gun away from her. "Lose the knife," Hobbes told her. "Right. Now." She turned her head to the blade and gazed at it lovingly for a second. Her eyes then focused on Fawkes and a delicate smile drew her mouth. She opened her hand wide and the knife clattered to the floor. Fawkes kicked it away. She held up her hands and fully faced Hobbes, the same smile on her face. Fawkes saw Hobbes eye twitch.  
"Hobbes...we got her, man. Let's take her in."  
For a long time, Hobbes stared at the woman down the site of his gun. Fawkes kept praying over and over, Don't let this be for nothing. At last, Hobbes drew a deep breath and released the hammer. "Fine. Cuff her."  
"I don't have the cuffs. You do."  
Hobbes let go of the gun with one hand and reached behind him to the handcuffs tucked into a special pocket on his belt. There was a sound behind him. Both Fawkes and the woman looked past him, her eyes wide with alarm. Hobbes let his attention slip for a split second.  
That was all she needed. With another of those banshee shrieks, she leaped for him. Both Hobbes and Fawkes brought up their guns, but somehow, Fawkes got his shot off first. A tranquilizer dart appeared between her shoulder blades. She spun drunkenly, turning her attention to Fawkes. Hobbes got her in his sites.  
"Don't!" Fawkes cried, holding out a hand. The tranq was kicking in. She stumbled toward him. Now, the other two agents were there, guns ready, and Fawkes kept his hand up for them.   
She reached behind, trying to grab the dart, as she continued to stagger toward him. "You motherfu..." Her eyes rolled up and she pitched forward. Fawkes awkwardly managed to grab her under the arms before she hit the floor. She dangled there, arms hanging, head thrown back. Fawkes looked down at her. She seemed peaceful, with her eyes closed. But the alien light threw her bones and rough skin in high relief. Her breath was harsh and ragged. He looked up at Hobbes. The older agent holstered his gun and, with a last look of disgust, walked away.  
  
Within an hour, the Agency had personnel crawling all over the secret lab. And within an hour, Hobbes and Fawkes had their prisoner back at the office. The Keeper met them, took one look at the unconscious woman on the gurney, and took her off their hands. They debriefed in the Official's office, Fawkes sitting carefully in his chair. The Official was pleased that Brenda Kozlowski hadn't died during her arrest. Hobbes sat stiffly, not saying a word, but Fawkes could tell he wasn't as happy as everyone else. Once they were dismissed, Fawkes headed for the lab and Hobbes veered toward his office.  
"Where are you going?"  
Fawkes punched the elevator button. "I'm going to check on Brenda."  
Hobbes ground his teeth and continued on his way.  
The Keeper wasn't in her lab, and the padded room was empty, so Fawkes decided to check in Lab 3. It was the makeshift hospital room of the Agency. Fawkes imagined that if he ever needed serious medical attention, that would probably be where he'd end up. Couldn't risk an average doctor finding that expensive gland in his head.  
Another agent was posted outside the room and nodded at Fawkes as he swung in. The sounds and the smell stopped him dead in his tracks.  
The odor of antiseptic and alcohol assaulted his nose as he heard the beep of a heart monitor. Brenda was embedded in the bed, covered in IV's, wires, and oxygen tubes. Claire stood beside her, clipboard resting on her hip, concern on her face. Fawkes looked at the heart monitor read out. Instead of a steady beat, the lines jumped and jittered erratically. The woman in the bed looked gray and even worse than he remembered. Claire looked up, saw him, and came to his side.  
"Jesus, what's wrong with her?" Fawkes asked.  
"Just about everything," Claire told him in a low tone.  
He looked up at the three (three?) IV bags hanging on the rack. One clear, one pale yellow, and one blood. He swung his gaze back to the Keeper. "What do you mean?"  
"I mean that by all rights, this woman should be dead."  
  
They all sat together in the Officials office, except for Eberts, of course. He hovered behind his boss' shoulder like a neurotic shadow. The day was fading, sending golden light through the blinds at an extreme angle. No one had turned on a light. They just sat in dumbstruck silence as the Keeper spoke.  
"Her body is breaking down. She has had concentrated amounts of the quicksilver hormone in her system for quite some time. That has caused her adrenal levels to continuous highs that the human body was not meant to endure."  
"Is that why she was so strong?" Fawkes asked quietly.  
"Yes. While adrenaline is useful in dealing with emergencies and stress, the body can't keep it circulating all the time. Individuals in high stress jobs, like paramedics, emergency room doctors, soldiers, can learn to work with frequent adrenaline surges. But even they need down time to give their bodies a chance to recover. Brenda has not had that down time. The hormone in her system has caused a steady output of adrenaline. I did a CBC count. Her heart has enlarged because of this. I suspect she hasn't eaten in some time because adrenaline causes loss of appetite. Prolonged exposure can also lead to schizophrenia. Coupled with the quicksilver hormone, there's no telling what kind of damaged has been done to her brain."  
Hobbes leaned against the credenza, away from the group, his face neutral as he listened. Fawkes was becoming more alarmed by the minute. Claire hadn't been kidding when she said that too much quicksilver would hurt him.  
"There was also this." Claire unclipped a tiny plastic bag from her chart and handed it to Fawkes. He peered at the thing inside. It was a very small cylinder with a coiled wire coming out of one end.  
"What is it?"  
"A very sophisticated radio transmitter. I found it just under the skin in the base  
of her neck. I think it was put in when the gland was. The scar tissue is about the same age. Whoever implanted the gland wanted to know where it was at all times." Hobbes cocked an eyebrow at her. "I've disabled it. I'm going to have an analysis run. Hopefully, that will tell us something about the people who did this to her."  
"To her," he echoed skeptically.  
"I did a complete tox screen on her blood. There is not one milligram of counter agent in her system. As I said, she's been experiencing quicksilver madness for some time. Possibly a month. Possibly longer." Fawkes shuddered. "I have to run more tests, but I'm pretty sure this gland is the same kind that Darien has. And what we know of that is that prolonged periods of the madness are extremely detrimental. Which brings me to the next problem."  
"Which is?" the Official asked wearily.  
"She needs a dose of counteragent immediately. If I can't get her levels down, she's not going to last the night."  
Fawkes sat up straighter. "So give it to her." Claire looked away. Her body language was giving him a bad feeling.  
"I do have a dose ready."  
"Okay, so..?"  
"I only have one dose ready. I started a double batch this afternoon when you brought her in, but it won't be ready for three more days."  
The Official sat back and nodded. Fawkes looked at each face in the room, finishing with Claire. "So give it to her," he repeated.  
The Keeper reached over to his arm and lifted his watch. The snake tattoo on his wrist was two cells away from being completely red. The Official looked very tired and old. "Then no," he stated quietly.  
Fawkes was out of his chair. "What do you mean, 'no'? Weren't you listening? She's gonna die."  
The boss looked up at him, weary and resigned. "And I feel badly about that. But you're my priority, not Kozlowski. I won't risk your health to save her."  
"Hey! I risked plenty to keep the goon squad from blowing her away!" Hobbes glared at him, but kept silent. "You can't just let her die!"  
"I don't have much of a choice."  
"The hell you don't! Look, I'm not in love with the idea of being crazy for a couple of days, but if it buys her some time, then I'm willing to take that risk." No one had changed expression. Time for a new tack. "Don't you want to find out who did this? Someone is out there with QC knowledge. They'll use it again. She knows who these people are. She can help us catch them."  
The Official seemed to consider that as he looked at the Keeper. When no answer was forthcoming, Fawkes tried his last measure. "Please. Don't let this happen."  
Claire thought for a moment and then, "There is an option."  
"What?" Fawkes pounced eagerly.  
She looked at him. "I could sedate you when your levels get too high. Keep you out until the new batch is ready."  
That gave him pause. "Sedate me?"  
"Would that be safe?" the Official wanted to know.  
"I could monitor him. If I carefully balance the drugs, yes, I think he would be quite safe."  
It wasn't a great solution, but it was the only one they had. "Okay. Let's do it then." He glanced over at Hobbes. His partner wouldn't look at him. Well, one fire at a time. The first order of business was to get Brenda out of the woods. He'd deal with Hobbes later.  
"I can't guarantee that the counter agent will help Agent Kozlowski the way she needs..." Claire began.  
"But we have to try," Fawkes finished for her before anyone started having second thoughts.  
  
Fawkes stood at the foot of the bed and watched as Claire injected the counteragent into the IV port. The plunger pushed the blue liquid into the deathly woman's arm. He hoped he wasn't going to regret this. His head was already starting to pound. Right now, it was an overall ache. Soon, though, it would localize in the back of his head. Then would come the shooting agony that would drive him to his knees. And then...  
He didn't want to think about it. His stomach was already in knots. He glanced at Brenda. He'd never seen anyone look this bad and not be a corpse. Her skin was pebbled, gray, and papery. Her chest barely moved with her respiration. Her dark hair was dull and stringy, wisps of it surrounding her head on the pillow. Claire had three blankets on her, trying to keep her warm. It was hard to believe that just a couple of hours ago, this woman was raging and ready to kill him.  
A change in the sound of the heart monitor caught his attention. The thin yellow line jumping across the screen slowed and steadied. There still was an occasional hiccup, but her heart rate appeared to respond to the counteragent immediately. Claire nodded. "Good, good." She bent over Brenda and began to check her vitals. When she was done, she straightened and hung her stethoscope around her neck.   
"How's she doing?"  
"Better. Still not great, but that seems to have done the trick."  
A warning jab of pain snaked through the back of his skull. Fawkes winced and tipped his head, willing it away. Claire caught his movement. "Right. Let's get you settled for your long winters sleep. I have to get out to that lab you two found"  
Be crazy for two days or unconscious for two days? Neither seemed very appealing to him at the moment. "Why don't I go with you? I'd like to have a look around myself."  
Claire looped her arm around his and led him out of the room. "I don't think so. I'm too tired to deal with you if you go mad in the field."  
He cast one last look at Brenda. "Yeah, but won't you need a bodyguard or something?"  
"The place is crawling with Agency people. What is it with you and Hobbes? I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." She steered him down the hallway and swiped her card to admit them both into her lab. She was all set up for him. The lab couch was positioned flat and draped with a sheet. An IV pole with a bag of clear fluid waited beside it. The instrument cart was parked to one side. On the other, another cart that had blankets and pillows. Gee, just like an operating room. He shuddered at the thought. Another bolt of pain shot through the back of his head. Fawkes checked his tattoo. One cell was still green. There was no putting this off any longer.  
"You'll want to get comfortable," Claire told him, walking around to the instrument cart and donning a pair of latex gloves.  
Steeling himself himself with a deep breath, Fawkes shrugged off his jacket. After he tossed it across the blanket cart, he cleaned out his pockets and put the items in the jacket pockets. Neither he or the Keeper heard Robert Hobbes enter the lab.  
Hobbes watched from the doorway as Fawkes pried off a sneaker with the other foot. "So, you're really going to do this?"  
Fawkes looked up as he pulled the next shoe off. "No choice, man."  
"Wrong. You have a choice." He was working very hard at keeping his voice down, but Fawkes knew what he meant. The whole situation had Hobbes extremely agitated.  
"No," he said levelly. "I didn't." White hot pain blasted through his skull. Fawkes bit back a shout and had to grab the table to keep from falling. Hobbes was instantly at his side, steadying him until the attack faded. Claire reached across the table and took his arm.  
"All right. We'll talk about this later. Get up here."  
Fawkes climbed up and lay back. Claire pointed at a pillow on the cart by Hobbes and the other man placed it under Fawkes' head. She strapped a blood pressure cuff around his bicep and took a quick reading. She then took his pulse. "You're running a little fast, mate," she said gently.  
"Nervous, I guess." The light tone he was trying for fell flat.  
She pumped up the cuff again. "I'm going to start an IV so that I don't have to keep poking you. Plus, I want to keep you hydrated."  
"Sounds like a pl-" More pain exploded. This time, he yelled and grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, trying to keep from jumping up. He felt Hobbes' hand on his arm. Claire gripped his other shoulder. Gradually, the pain faded and his sight returned. He released a shaky breath. "You'd better hurry."  
She nodded and pressed her fingers against the crook of his elbow. "Make a fist," she told him, careful snapping the skin with two fingers, trying to encourage a vein to the surface. A blue strand bulged under the skin. She took his elbow with one hand and guided the needle in. Fawkes sucked in air as the large bore bit into his flesh. Okay, he wasn't going to complain about the shots anymore. This hurt much worse. Claire worked quickly. Once the vein was tapped, she withdrew the needle and taped the catheter down. She then reached up and started the drip on the IV. She ripped the cuff off and put it on her tray. She gingerly touched the entry point. "How does that feel?"  
"Like I have a drain pipe in my arm."  
She smiled slightly and picked up a syringe. "This is going to sting a little." She fitted the needle into the port and depressed the plunger. A little? It felt like she was injecting him with acid. He winced and clenched his teeth. Oh, no. He wasn't going to complain about the counteragent shots ever again.  
"This should hit you pretty fast."  
"What about-" A black velvet curtain silently crashed down and there was nothing.  
  
The dock was a flurry of activity. She and Hobbes got out of the van and walked into the warehouse together. He pointed out the spots of their adventure. It wasn't anything she couldn't have read in his report, but it helped to see it. He led her to the hidden stairway and down into the lab.  
Full power had been restored and the place was brightly lit. Several nondescript agents in black or blue suits were moving around silently. They carried boxes or papers or equipment and didn't acknowledge the pair. Their job was to get in, determine what was needed, and get it out quickly. A trio of agents in white haz mat suits had long discarded their headgear and worked in one of the medical alcoves. One of them, a petite Asian woman, caught Claire's eye and approached them.  
"Doctor," she greeted.  
"What do we have here?"  
"It looks like a complete facility. Nothing is state of the art, but they had the equipment that they needed."  
"Anything we can use?"  
The other woman shook her head. "No. Nothing with names. All we found were hard copies. There are no computers down here."  
That surprised Claire. "None?"  
"No, ma'am."  
"That's impossible. You cannot do a project of this scale without computers."  
"Perhaps they worked on mobiles."  
Hobbes leaned into the conversation. "If they weren't working with government sanction, maybe they needed to be able to bug out quickly."  
"It certainly looks like they left in a rush. But they knew we were coming."  
"Why do you say that?" Claire asked.  
The woman started to walk, gesturing that they should follow. They headed down the central corridor. "There is absolutely nothing here that could lead us to the suspects. As I said, there isn't one thing with a name on it. All of this equipment was purchased second hand and the serial numbers have been scratched off. All the important information has been removed. They left in a hurry, but they had enough time to cover their tracks."  
"This doesn't make any sense. Why would they leave her behind?"  
"To cover their tails," Hobbes offered.  
"But why? She represents a considerable investment of time and money."  
"She isn't exactly prime goods, doc."  
"Even so, she's got several million dollars of technology in her brain. It doesn't appear that they had a lot of money to throw around. I would think they'd at least want to retrieve the gland before they left."  
"Maybe we got here too soon for them. They sic their psycho bitch on us and high tail it the other way. They were probably hoping she'd kill some or all of us."  
Claire stopped. "Or, perhaps they were counting on you killing her."  
That thought made Hobbes halt. "She's damaged goods..."  
"And if you take care of their problem for them..."  
"We go away with our prize and leave them alone for a while." Hobbes nodded. "Slick.  
They started walking again, mulling things over. It obviously had never occurred to Hobbes that Brenda Kozlowski could have been left behind as some kind of bait. Or garbage to be disposed of. It was her personal opinion that something evil had happened here. In her years of covert government work, Claire had seen a lot of unpleasantness. She had a pretty good idea of the evil man was capable of. But to implant a quicksilver gland into a person, then let it slowly destroy their mind and body... To what end? Just to see what would happen? Was Brenda Kozlowski just some kind of laboratory animal to them? Were they using her to push the side-effects of the gland so that they would be able to better protect their next receptacle? Had they purposely let the quicksilver take over? What better way to determine the lengths of its use than to see if a normal, well-adjusted, dedicated person could be turned into a killing machine. An invisible assassin with no guilt, no remorse. She hoped Hobbes was right. She almost hoped that the people responsible for all of this weren't working for the government. It put them cleanly on the other side of the fence. An enemy to be targeted and stopped.  
"We also found this," the woman said. They had reached the end of the hall and stood before a door. The woman opened it for them and ushered them through. Claire gasped.  
It was a large room, empty except for a large cage in the center. A ten by ten by ten-foot cube of steel bars, bolted to the cement floor with heavy steel straps. The only items inside were a mattress with a tangle of fabric on top and a vacuum toilet/sink combination. It looked like some kind of barbaric prison cell. She went in through the open gate and to the bare mattress. There was one balled-up blanket and some clothes. She picked up one of the items. A dirty black T-shirt. Just about Brenda Kozlowski's size.  
Hobbes looked at the cage, his expression hard and unreadable. The petite woman noted their shock and quietly withdrew, leaving them alone.  
"My God, Bobby," Claire breathed. "What happened here?"  
  
"Once a new technology rolls over you, if you're not part of the steamroller, you're part of the road."  
  
- Stewart Brand   
  
Agent Hobbes and the Keeper were yelling at each other and it was giving him a headache. This was not the way he wanted to start his day. The Official glanced at Eberts. His assistant looked nervous and fidgety as he watched the two go at it. It didn't take much to ruffle Eberts. He, on the other hand, had no such handicap.  
"You, of all people, should be more understanding!" the Keeper yelled.  
"All I know is, this woman is responsible for the deaths of two federal-" Hobbes shouted back.  
"Yes, yes, we all know. She's killed people. But it's not her fault."  
"Oh, really? Then whose fault is it? The good fairy?"  
"You know what the quicksilver gland does to higher cortical functions! You don't seem to hold it against Darien that he's tried to kill you!"  
"That's because I'm still standing here!"  
"Through outside intervention!" she shot back hotly.  
"That's enough!" the Official hollered over both of them. They fell silent and looked at him. He could see in their eyes that the argument wasn't over. They could take it outside. He'd heard enough for one day. "Sit down. Both of you," he instructed gruffly. They traded hostile glares before settling into chairs.  
"It's my understanding that the dock has been sealed and the lab sterilized."  
"Yes, sir," Hobbes said crisply.  
"What have you found?" he asked the Keeper.  
"I went through everything last night. I'm afraid there wasn't anything there that can help an investigation."  
"What about you?" he asked Hobbes.   
"Just what Eberts and I have found so far, sir. The senator hid his trail, but he definitely gave use of that piece of real estate to the Cognitive Trust. He also donated a lot of money to them."  
"And?"  
"I'm working on that, sir."  
"Fine." He settled back in his chair, glad the battle was over for now. He looked at the Keeper. "How's Fawkes?"  
"He's fine. He's sleeping comfortably."  
"When are you going to have more counteragent ready?"  
"Tomorrow morning."  
"Good. And how is our guest?" Hobbes snorted and muttered something under his breath. The Keeper clenched her teeth. "What was that, Agent Hobbes."  
"Sir, she is not our guest. She is our prime suspect. We shouldn't be giving her free room and board. She should be in a federal holding cell."  
"It's not like she's going anywhere," the Keeper gritted. "She's in a coma."  
"Good!" Hobbes blurted. "Now she can't hurt anyone else."  
"Of all the stubborn, heartless-"  
"Heart's got nothin' to do with it, sister!" He was on his feet again. "She's a stone killer."  
The Keeper slowly rose out of her chair. "You're like a bloody broken record. I can't believe-"  
"Agent Hobbes, you're dismissed!" the Official barked.  
"Sir, I-"  
"Out! Get on with your investigation. Take a walk. Feed the pigeons. I don't care. Just go."  
Hobbes wanted to protest, but a glare from his boss clamped his mouth shut again. He settled for one last scowl at the Keeper before stomping out of the office. The door rattled with the slam.  
"Now, then, Doctor. Where were we?"  
"She's doing much better. The shot of counteragent I gave her yesterday has calmed most of the adrenaline in her system. Her heart rate is more normal now. She was badly malnourished and dehydrated when she was brought in. I have been addressing that."  
"When do you think she'll be able to help us with our investigation?"  
"I can't say. Honestly, I can't be sure she'll be capable of much of anything when she wakes up. If she wakes up."  
The Official pursed his lips. He didn't want to hear that. He'd gambled big by allowing Fawkes to forgo his shot in favor of Kozlowski. He didn't want that to be in vain. "Do everything you can. I'll see what I can arrange in the budget. The people responsible for this have to be caught and she's the key." The Keeper nodded. "On a personal note, Doctor, I'd like to see her recover. Kozlowski was a good agent and a credit to government service. I don't want to see these bastards destroy that."  
She blinked at him, surprised by his personal admission. In the next moment, he thought she might cry. Instead, she graced him with a smile and quietly left his office.  
  
"Darien, can you hear me?"  
The voice was far away, barely cutting through the cocoon of sleep that held him tight. Maybe if he ignored the voice, it would go away.  
"Darien?"  
Go away.   
"Darien, come on. I need you to open your eyes."   
Oh crap. The sleep was unraveling, slowly whirling away from him. He was far too comfortable to let it go, but the more he fought it, the more awake he became. He could feel the table underneath him. Something touched his forehead. No no not yet. He wanted to be left alone. Something shook him and the last of the comfortable feeling vanished.  
"What?" he demanded grumpily. Now he was freezing. What the hell?  
"It's time to wake up." Claire's voice. Why was she bothering him? Couldn't she see he was sleeping?  
"Later," he muttered thickly, hoping to ease back into slumber.  
"No, now. Come on. Open your eyes." She patted his face. It was just short of a slap and it brought him fully awake. He stubbornly refused to open his eyes. Damn, he was cold! "Don't make me get an ammonia ampule," she chided. He knew she wasn't completely kidding. Reluctantly, he pried one eye open. A blurry figure loomed over him. He couldn't focus and finally gave in, opening the other eye.  
"There, now. That's much better."  
Much better than what? He blinked slowly, until her image came into sharp focus. Claire smiled at him. Oh yeah. He remembered now. He'd had a little drug-induced nap. Now the fuzzy warm feeling of unconsciousness was gone, replaced by aches, pains, and a head full of wool. He felt awful. He tried to say something, but his tongue was too thick to work.   
"What?"  
"'m I fixed?" he slurred. Man, he sounded drunk.  
"Yes. I gave you your shot of counter agent over an hour ago. You're all better now."  
It would be nice if he felt better. His back was stiff. His arms and legs felt like lead. He decided the best approach would be to move around. Otherwise, he might be tempted to lie there all day. It had been nice to sleep, though... No, let's get moving. He tried to sit up. He failed miserably.  
"Here. Let me help." She slid a hand under his back and took his arm in the other. He tried again. This time, with Claire's help, he made it. His back protested the whole way up. He groaned. "My, someone is certainly grumpy in the morning." He fixed her with as annoyed a look he could muster and hunched down. He was shaking.  
Claire wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and tucked it in around him. It helped but he was still so cold. "Just take it easy," she told him. "It's going to take a while for your body to come around."  
"Great," he mumbled. He looked down at the arm that had the IV. A small bandage covered the spot. He shivered again and crossed his arms tight, trying to generate warmth.  
"Hey, partner, how you doing?" Hobbes called from the door. Fawkes looked up blearily. "Ouch. I guess not so good, huh?" He tried to think of an appropriately smart remark, but his brain wasn't working too well now. Hobbes came over and pressed a ceramic mug into his hands. He wasn't too interested in the coffee, but the mug was warm and he gratefully gripped it tight.  
"He doesn't look so good," Hobbes told the Keeper.  
"Give him a few minutes. He's been unconscious for two days."  
Fawkes carefully sipped the coffee. It tasted awful, but it was hot. He felt his eyes slip close. He was starting to warm up. He could easily go back to sleep now.  
"No you don't," Claire admonished. "Get up."  
He moaned again and looked at her. She was expectant. "What?"  
"Get up. Off the table. Move around."  
She had to be kidding. She wasn't. She yanked the blanket away from him. Damn, he was cold again.  
"Come on, big guy," Hobbes coaxed. "Do what the doc says."  
"I'm awake. Isn't that enough?"  
"Nope." Claire hit a lever and the table dropped out from under his legs. Nearly falling off gave him enough of a jolt to get him completely alert. He decided right then that he hated both of them. Hobbes took the cup to let him stand up without spilling any. With Claire on one side of him and Hobbes on the other, Fawkes climbed to his feet. He was stiff and sore and the movement caused another moan.  
"I'm up, I'm up. Okay? Happy now?" he grumbled.  
"Yes, thank you," Claire said brightly. "Much happier now." He scowled at her and snatched the blanket out of her hand, pulling it around his shoulders. Hobbes gave him back the coffee and he wrapped his hands around the mug again. He took another sip and a couple of shuffling steps. Being upright helped. He knew he just needed to move around to loosen up. He watched at his Keeper cleared everything away from the table. At one point, she glanced at Hobbes. His partner saw her and there was an exchange angry looks. What was that about? The frost in the air between the two was palpable. He'd figure out what the problem was later. Right now, another priority popped into his head.  
"Hey, how's Brenda?"  
Another hostile glance. "She's doing much better," Claire told him, still looking at Hobbes.  
"How much better?"  
Claire pulled her gaze away from the other man and focused on him. "Why don't you go home. Take a shower, change, get a meal. You're not on active duty until tomorrow."  
"Yeah, but-"  
"C'mon, kid. I'll drive you home," Hobbes said, taking his elbow. Fawkes sent a silent question to Claire. She nodded encouragement and turned away. Okay. A shower sounded good. Maybe standing under some pounding hot water would ease the stiffness. He would just come back here right after.  
  
Hobbes wasn't much for conversation on the way to Darien's apartment. The senior partner was in a black mood and would only answer Fawkes' questions with perfunctory one-word answers. So he gave up. Hobbes would tell him when he was ready. He dropped Fawkes at the front door and left quickly.  
The shower did wonders for his disposition. After a shave and a change of clothes, the effects of the drugs were almost completely gone. He still felt a little fuzzy around the edges, but Fawkes supposed a good night's sleep in his own bed would solve that. He foraged in the fridge and found some orange juice and left over pizza that settled his growling stomach. Once he made sure the rat had food and water, he grabbed his keys and coat and was out the door.  
The tan van was parked in Hobbe's spot. At least he knew his partner had come back to work. Fawkes wanted to talk to him, but first he wanted to check in with Claire and the Agency's patient.  
He took the stairs down to the basement, enjoying the movement after two days of lying still. He swiped himself in and took long strides to Lab 3. A technician he'd seen around the Agency was seated at the small desk by the door, making notes in the chart. He glanced up when Fawkes swung through the door.  
"Hey," Fawkes greeted. "How's it going?" He continued to the bed and drew still at the side. She looked better. Her skin wasn't as gray. She was still pale, but at least there was a hint of pink in her cheeks. The flesh around her eyes no longer looked bruised. The skeletal quality of her face was gone as well. She seemed a little more filled out. He glanced at the heart monitor. A slow steady beat. "How is she?" he asked the tech.  
The technician reluctantly closed the chart, rose from his chair, and came to the foot of the bed. His nametag said "Bloom". "All right, considering." He sounded bored.  
"Where's Cl-uh, the Keeper?"  
"In her lab, I believe." He hung the chart on the bed and went back to his desk. Real helpful guy. Fawkes touched Brenda's arm. She felt warm. That was good, he guessed. He left the room and went to the main lab at the end of the hall.  
The door slid open in response to his card. He didn't see anyone and stepped in. He finally found her, slumped over a worktable. Her head rested on her arm, her eyes closed. He was about to become worried when he heard her faint snore. Falling asleep on the job? That wasn't like her. He bent down and took her shoulder. "Hey. Claire."  
She jolted awake, sitting up so fast she nearly collided with him. "Whoops! Take it easy. You fell asleep."  
She had sat up before she was fully awake and blinked at him in confusion. When she recognized him, she released a tired sigh and slouched. "Darien. What are you doing here?"  
"I came to talk to you about our guest." She fumbled with some papers in front of her and smoothed her hair. He peered closely. "When was the last time you slept?"  
"I'm fine," she said lightly. She didn't look fine. She looked exhausted.  
"Uh-huh. So, when was the last time you slept?"  
"There's been a lot going on in the last few days. I've had a lot of work to do."  
Which, knowing her, meant that she hadn't had any real sleep since the crap hit the fan. "Why don't you go home, get some sleep?"  
"Really, Darien, I said I'm fine." She collected the papers, stuffed them into a file, got up, and promptly collided with a pole that was next to her. The file slipped from her hand, papers sliding across the floor.   
Fawkes took her by the arms and made her look at him. "Go. Home." She started to protest and he had to talk over her. "You're wiped. You're going to start making mistakes. Go home." She looked at him and held up her chin. Man, she was stubborn. "Do you want me to drive you?"  
She decided he wasn't going to leave it alone. "No, I'll be fine."  
He let go of her. "So you're going home to get some sleep, right?"  
"Yes."  
Somehow, he didn't believe her. "When?"  
"As soon as I finish-"  
"Uh-uh. Right now." She was digging in her heels. Outside of Hobbes, she was the most hardheaded person he knew. Fawkes went to the coat rack and collected her sweater and purse. "Come on," he said from the door. "I'm taking you home."  
"Darien, I'm quite capable-"  
"Oh, I know you're quite capable. You're quite capable of putting me off and saying what I want to hear. Come on. Let's go. I want to be sure you get home some time today."  
Claire rolled her bloodshot eyes and heaved an annoyed sigh. She joined him at the door where he gallantly helped her on with her sweater. She took her purse and straightened her collar. Fawkes smiled. Two months ago, he wouldn't have been able to convince her of anything. Now, she was allowing him to override her. He pushed the button and the door slid open. "Right this way, miss."  
She cast him a sour look that was tinged with humor. "If you insist on being my chauffeur..." She left the lab with him right behind her.  
"Oh, yes'm, Miss Daisy."   
  
She was more tired than she would ever admit to Darien. For the last four days, she had been going without much more than little fifteen-minute naps snatched here and there. Although her residency and government work had trained her for long hours, her body was reaching the end of its reserves. Darien was right. If she didn't get some real sleep soon, she was going to crash and burn.  
Pavlov was with a neighbor. While her spirits could have done with some eager doggy affection, she was too exhausted to handle it. She reached up to throw the deadbolt. Her handle trembled. Indeed time for some sleep, Claire. She dumped everything into an unceremonious pile next to door and dragged herself up the stairs. Her mind whirled with events and information. She wondered if she would actually be able to sleep when she set herself in bed. Once in her bedroom, she kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned off her blouse. A shower might be nice. Oh, no-a bath, better. She pulled her pantyhose past her rump and plunked down on the bed to peel them off her legs. A lovely hot bubble bath with some skin oil. It sounded heavenly. She was still thinking about it when she flopped back on the bed and fell into a dead sleep.  
  
Hobbes wasn't in his office. The fat man was on some kind of phone conference for who knew how long. Fawkes decided to go back to Lab 3. Bloom was still there. He seemed irked that Fawkes was there again. He decided to make friends with the tech and offered to take watch while Bloom went for a break. Bloom seemed to think that was a dumb idea. So he wasn't going to be much for conversation. If Fawkes was going to stay in the room long, he was going to need something to do.  
He rummaged around the rooms of the basement he has access to. In a stock room down the hall, he uncovered a battered copy of Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut. Not his favorite author, but it was better than nothing. He went back to Lab 3, settled into a chair by the bed, and started reading.  
Fawkes was soon involved in Vonnegut and didn't notice the few times Bloom looked up. The tech was none too happy about having Fawkes there. He was hoping for a quiet evening by himself so he could work on his paper. Having one of the Agency's top people in the room made him nervous at first. When it became clear that Fawkes had no interest in keeping tabs on him and was more involved in his book, Bloom relaxed and went back to his work. He even felt okay enough to ask Fawkes to keep an eye on the patient while he ran to the men's room. Fawkes cheerfully agreed to spot him.  
A few minutes after Bloom left and he picked up where he'd left the book, Brenda moaned. Fawkes was instantly on his feet. Her brow was furrowed. Her head rolled toward him. She mumbled something unintelligible.  
"It's okay," he told her. "You're okay."  
Her breathing became labored as she shook her head. He put his hand on her arm. "Take it easy."  
"No," she said. She muttered something else he couldn't make out. She was responding to something other than him. Her legs shifted under the blankets. Maybe she was waking up. He certainly knew from recent experience how difficult that could be. Her hand clutched the blanket. He covered it with his own. "Just relax, Brenda. You're going to be okay."  
She hitched a sudden gasp and went rigid. The heart monitor beeped faster. Oh crap. He didn't like the look of this. He was about to call for Bloom when she released a plea of "Please" and fell still. Her respiration went back to a slow steady pace. The heart monitor slipped into a normal rhythm.  
"What happened?" Bloom asked from the door, panic creeping into his voice.  
"I don't know. I think she was waking up."  
Bloom hustled to the bed and began checking vitals against the chart. He unclipped a penlight from his pocket and lifted her lids to peer into her eyes. Fawkes was relieved to see that they were blue again. After some moments of Bloom's silent fussing, Fawkes asked, "Well?"  
"She's unconscious."  
"Really? Glad to see that medical training is paying off for you."  
Bloom slipped into his earlier suspicious annoyance. "She's not awake. She may have been dreaming. But she's a long way from being conscious." Bloom flounced back to his desk, taking his wounded pride with him. Fawkes shook his head and looked down at Brenda. She was as still as before. After a while, he sat back in his chair and went back to his book.   
  
"Darien."  
He jumped awake. It was a lot easier than yesterday. Claire stood over him, touching his neck. "Hi."  
"Hi," she said with a slight smile. "What are you doing here?"  
Fawkes looked around to find he was slumped in the chair in Lab 3. The book had fallen to the floor. He checked his watch. 6:00 am. Wow. He hadn't meant to spend the night. He sat up straight and pulled himself together. "I, uh... I didn't think she should be alone." She cocked an eyebrow, indicating her confusion. "Well, it's not like we can call her family or friends to come in and sit with her."  
Claire's expression softened. "That's very sweet, Darien. But she's hardly been alone."  
"You mean Chuckles who was here last night? Oh, yeah. That's who I'd want to wake up to."  
"David Bloom is very capable." She checked Brenda.  
"Capable of being a pain in the ass," he groused. He watched as she took vitals and made notes in the chart before he told her "I think she tried to wake up last night."  
"So I see," Claire said, reading the chart. "Did she say anything?"  
"All I understood was 'No' and 'Please'."  
"She could have been dreaming."  
"Well, if it was, it looked more like a nightmare."  
Claire closed the metal chart cover and rested it against her hip. "I wouldn't be surprised, given what she's been through."  
Fawkes stood and stretched. A muscle in his back protested a night spent on the plastic chair. "I'm glad I'm not the only one who feels that way."  
"I think the only one who doesn't feel that way is Hobbes."  
He picked up the book and set it on the side table. "Yeah, what's up between you two?"  
Claire sighed. "We had a disagreement. A loud disagreement."  
"About Brenda?"  
She nodded and hooked the chart on the end of the bed. "I'm afraid his opinion of her fate has no changed."  
"Great. Guess I know what not to discuss with him today." She shrugged and turned to leave the lab. He trotted to catch up with her. "You're looking much better this morning, by the way."  
She smiled at him. "Yes. It's amazing what 14 hours of hard sleep can do for you."  
  
Hobbes sat in the Official's office with Fawkes, going over what he'd dug up so far. During his partner's beauty rest, he had been rattling a few trees to see what fell out. The only thing he had to go after was the Cognitive Trust. That particular group was proving to be very slippery. The secret lab hadn't provided anything useful and he was feeling frustrated and stymied. The investigation was going nowhere fast.  
Fawkes had been very quiet that morning. Hobbes could tell that he was full of questions, but he kid wisely decided to keep his trap shut. Hobbes already knew what he felt about the Kozlowski woman. With the Keeper and the Official on the same side of the fence, he was feeling decidedly in the minority. But right now, the only concrete thing he had was the killer in the Agency's basement. The sooner she was off the Agency's hands and in serious federal custody, the happier he was going to be.  
The Official wasn't much help. He either couldn't or wouldn't offer much information on the Trust. In a way, Hobbes understood. CT was the money muscle behind I-Man and undoubtedly other top-secret projects. They weren't the type of people you wanted to piss off. But if he couldn't get his hands on more to work with, he was never going to find out who was behind creating the super assassin. Whoever they were, they would try again. With Climes dead, it didn't look likely that they were going to get more helpful tips before the next killing.  
Eberts was assigned to work with him on the research full time. Hobbes wasn't crazy about working with the aid, but he had to hand it to the guy. He knew his way around a computer and financial reports. With the two of them laboring together, it didn't leave Fawkes much to do. Which was just as well. Hobbes wasn't too happy with his partner at the moment.  
They split up outside the Official's door. Hobbes took Eberts to his office where they would try, for the millionth time, to follow a trail that was getting colder by the minute. Fawkes offered to talk to the Keeper, kind of a review of the past couple of days and to see if he found anything new. That was fine with Hobbes. The kid was smart, but he was no detective. He didn't have the patience for the grind of putting tiny pieces together. And if the topic of Kozlowski came up during the day, he knew that a knock-down-drag-out would result. He wanted to find as much as he could to show the others her guilt. Hard to argue with cold, hard facts.  
It was a tedious day. No matter where he and Eberts looked, they couldn't come up with a single name associated with Cognitive Trust. Every angle, every attempt, came up against a brick wall. Hobbes was becoming more irritated by the minute and took to pacing the office, tossing Fawkes' tennis ball in the air. He started grabbing at straws, but even those wild ideas came up empty. By the end of the day, he was no closer to a solution than he had been that morning. He had a headache and his neck was rigid from stress. He finally told Eberts to scram. What he needed was a drink (or more) and some company. He lobbed the ball at the trash basket. It swished in cleanly. The first thing that had gone right all day. He shut off the lights and decided that some time in his favorite bar was in order. If nothing else, he might be able to score a date for the evening.  
  
Fawkes' day hadn't been much better. He spent hours poking through the boxes and equipment that had been retrieved from the secret lab. He wasn't sure what he expected to find. Claire had combed everything thoroughly. She told him about her visit to the pier and what she had found there. Including the cage. He gaped at her when she relayed that last bit.  
"You've got to be kidding me."  
Claire shook her head. "I wish I were."  
Brenda continued to sleep. Reports filtered back that she was having bouts of fitful unrest, but she was still out. It concerned Claire. Given her physical condition, it was no surprise that her body nearly shut down to recover. But after three days, there should have been some sign of consciousness. Claire told him that she was scheduling more tests for the next morning. It was possible that the gland itself had caused some damage. Fawkes understood her unspoken suggestion that Brenda might never wake up. The concept depressed him. Terrific. Brenda would then spend the rest of her life as a vegetable, wasting away in some Agency nuthouse somewhere. It just got better and better. He entertained dark thoughts about his employers for the rest of the day.  
Around 7 that evening, Claire announced she was going home. She wanted to get an early start the next day. Fawkes walked with her to the parking garage and left in his own car. He didn't mention to her that he planned on returning to Lab 3 after dinner to sit with Brenda. He wondered why he felt the need to do that. If Brenda was a vegetable, it's not like she'd know he was there. Maybe it was sympathy. Maybe it was empathy. All he knew for sure was that it could very easily be him lying in Lab 3, shut off from the rest of the world. The idea of that made the skin on the back of his neck tighten.  
At his apartment, he changed into sweats and a T-shirt. He packed the next day's clothes in a gym bag. The more mileage he could save on running back and forth, the more time he could spend working on the case, the better. He went through the drive-thru at a local fast food chain to collect his dinner. He'd eat in the lab. And too bad if Bloom was there and forgot to pack a brown bag.  
He passed the stock room on his way down the hall and thought it was unusual that the door was ajar. He shrugged it off until he entered Lab 3 and saw Bloom sitting on the floor, holding his head. The bed was empty. Fawkes tossed his dinner on the desk and rushed to the technician.   
"What happened?"  
Bloom winced as he gingerly touched a growing lump on his forehead. "She's awake."  
Fawkes leapt to his feet and slapped a red alarm button on the wall. Then he ran to the stockroom.  
The door was shut now. He braced himself and pushed it open. The lights were off, the only illumination coming from the windows that faced the hall and the sliver of opening he stood in. Without looking, he reached for the switch. His hand brushed broken plastic. Fawkes looked down and saw that the switch had been smashed. He perked his ears, straining to hear. He could make out the sound of ragged, labored breathing. She was in here. Not wanting to repeat his experience from the pier, he used to door as a shield while he peered into the gloom. He couldn't see anything at first. But when he finally saw her, her proximity made him jump. She stood against the far wall, only about 20 feet away. Barefoot, her hospital gown glowed in the gloom. She stood like a statue, pressed against the wall, watching him with wide eyes. He made eye contact and she tucked her chin, looking at him through a tangle of hair. Otherwise, she didn't move.   
Okay, now what to do? The door was in the only way out of the room. Metal shelves laden with medical supplies jutted into the room, perpendicular to the wall she was hugging. He heard footsteps running toward him and he held back a hand, not breaking the contact he had with her. Fawkes felt the agents crowd up his back. Brenda saw them as well and cringed, wedging herself in the small space between the wall and the end of the shelves. She was terrified. She was going to do something drastic if he didn't act fast.  
He turned to the three agents and quietly said, "Back up. I'll get her." They were reluctant at first. He used his body to make it clear he wasn't going to let them past him. At last, they relented. He looked back in the room. She was crouched behind the shelves, watching him like a trapped animal.  
"Hi," Fawkes said gently. "Brenda, right?" She flinched when he spoke and disappeared behind the shelving unit. "My name is Darien. Why don't you come out?"  
An eye peeked around the shelves and disappeared again. She was panting like a sprinter.  
"It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you." He could barely see and pushed the door open the rest of the way to allow more light. He held out his arms for a moment to make sure the gung-ho Agency boys wouldn't take that as an invite, then stepped into the room. She bolted from her spot, racing to the end of the room, keeping the shelves between them. "Hold on! It's okay!"  
He hurried to the last row of shelves. She was about to emerge from them, but saw him and scrambled back into the shadows. Her legs went out from under her and she fell gracelessly. When he made to step into the row, however, she quickly recovered. She clawed at the shelves and pushed her body into the corner. The look of abject horror on her face scared him.  
Time to try something new. He sat on his haunches so his eyes were at her level. "Easy. You're okay. No one's going to hurt you." She struggled for breath and stared at him. "Let me take you back to your room." He held out his hand. "Come on."  
She gaped at his hand as though it were a snake. He didn't move. She returned her eyes to his and he felt a change. She seemed to relax a little. "There you go," he encouraged. "Take it. I won't bite." She looked back at his hand and blinked rapidly. This was going to take a while. He could wait. He just hoped the Agency goons could. He slid into a steady, soothing patter. "There you go. It's okay. I want to help you. Easy. There's nothing to be scared of."  
When she looked back up, something behind him caught her attention. The terror returned. With a strangled cry, she launched from her spot, heading to where she began. Fawkes stood and spun. One of the agents was training a tranquilizer gun where Brenda had been. He angrily grabbed it out of the agent's hands and threw it away. "Knock it off!"  
One of the racks of shelves tipped and crashed against its neighbor. Supplies tumbled to the floor. The other agents shouted alerts and were in the room, guns ready. Jesus, they were going to start shooting. "Back off, God damn it!" They weren't listening and he had to shove them back, looking for Brenda. She was in the second row and swiped something from an upper shelf. The small box fell open on the floor with a plastic clatter. She lunged for one of the items and withdrew to the wall, using her legs to try to push herself further than the wall would allow. He put his back between her and the guns. She was still pumping her legs as she grabbed a small plastic guard away and threw it at him. She had a scalpel.  
He remembered the feeling of her knife against his throat and crouched down again, if only to make a smaller target. But she wasn't holding the blade toward him. She clutched the disposable surgical tool in a white-knuckled fist, blade up. She slowly raised her hand. Fawkes felt growing dread as he realized what she was doing. The scalpel crept toward her neck. She didn't plan on using it on him. She wanted to use it on herself.  
"Whoa! No, Brenda!" The scalpel stopped. His shout had startled her. She sat still a stared with terror-filled eyes. "Please give me that," he said more calmly. She didn't move. "Brenda, let me have the scalpel. You don't want to do this."  
A single, fat tear welled and spilled down her sweaty face. God, he hoped that meant he was getting through. He crept into the row. "Come on, Brenda. Just give me the knife. I want to help you, if you'll let me. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you." He fell into a soothing patter, keeping his voice low and calm. She didn't move, one way or another, but he was finally close enough to reach out and grip her wrist. He slowly reached with the other hand and took the scalpel between his thumb and index finger. He pulled. There was a second of resistance, then the plastic handle slid out of her hand. Fawkes tossed it over his shoulder, in case she changed her mind. He took her other wrist.  
"That's it. Let's get you back to your room." He slowly rose to his feet, drawing her with him. Once he was sure she was steady and not going to fall, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She didn't fight him. She just dropped her head and leaned against his chest. He moved carefully, not wanting to rush her, and brushed the litter of scalpels away with his foot. He emerged from the row with Brenda snugged to his side. The other agents still had their guns out, but at least they didn't look itchy to fire. He eased to the door and made it to the hallway before Brenda became very heavy and began to slip. For the second time, Fawkes barely managed to catch her before she hit the floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
